Today I was packing up the kitchen. I was home alone, as usual--can I still call this house home?--and putting things into boxes. I was thinking, I don't know where to even start. I looked into the hallway, full of boxes, and tears crept into my eyes. Throw into box, check size, throw into box again. Check my watch. It's been four hours. Where are you?
The front door opens and my head shoots up--it's Finley, smiling and even a little handsome in that new Pea coat of his. The usual argument ensues. Have I eaten? How long have I been doing this, been home alone? And even the moment where he edits himself; the 'How can she just leave y--' and sighs. It's not even a real argument, he doesn't have hostility. He's looking out for me, because I'm too confused to live life right now. I gave up everything I could give up to be behind her, to live for her, to grow, and it isn't enough.
It doesn't even matter, because I only hear the usual things. I only hear them from her, only instead of his, there's hostility and irritation.
It doesn't matter, because when I'm scared and upset and I start to sob, it's Finley who holds and and promises it'll be okay. Still. It's Finley who says, I'll go get you something to eat. Do you want to talk about it?
Even when I was with Finley, and he had huge stuff to deal with, I was his main priority. I admit fully, he wasn't a full adult yet. He wasn't paying pills then, or rent, or electric or internet.
He is now, and he works even harder to take care of me. I wasn't the only one crying today, he was, too. And Katie wasn't there.
Katie isn't there a lot lately.
And she comes home, and she looks at me like she's confused. Why am I upset? But I can't tell her. Whenever I tell her she gets upset and acts like she's guilty, even if all I want is a hug. Even if all I want is to hear it'll be okay.
And he sets down the food. He tells me what I need to hear to function. While she's busy gallivanting off to take care of something else, again, he's there. And I'm leaving him. I'm never going to see him again, and she doesn't even care enough to pick up the pieces of the life we made here.
I'm following her. Again. I want to follow her, of course.
I just wanted to say that it was a good thing I was willing to give up everything for her, since I just have.
Such a shame she wasn't here to see it.
Monday, November 11, 2013
Sunday, May 26, 2013
Wild: Marriage
I believe in relationships. All kinds, traditional, and non. Either way, we're in it for as long as we want to be in it. We believe.
But it isn't going to work without trust. If you don't believe that you can throw your lover into a room full of what tempts them, naked, have everybody else look like supermodels, and come out victorious, you shouldn't be together. If you don't want your lover to go out with their friends because they might get too drunk and rape somebody in a corner, don't be together.
If you have to smear the filth that you 'only have eyes for them' every morning, as certain as babies' breath at weddings, you shouldn't be together. Be honest with yourself. Look at your life. You don't only have eyes for them. Oh, right now, sure. But in ten minutes, when s/he walks by and your genitals set themselves on fire, is forever as sure? You have a flicker of doubt then, the smallest one, like a little tint of smoke over glass..
If you don't, you shouldn't be together. Your relationship isn't healthy or stable. Your love is a part of this world, not all of it. Otherwise you've been mentally fucked, either by yourself or them, and you need to get the fuck out of dodge.
Yeah. See what I did there?
If you wouldn't sacrifice for your lover, you shouldn't be together, either. Oh, I don't mean heroic sacrifices; you can wipe that smug grin off your face right now. I mean the type of sacrifices that are hard to do and easy to get wrong. I mean, suppose you aren't the right person for your lover. Would you leave them if you knew? What if you're keeping them from bliss and true happiness for a lie, just so you aren't lying alone in your bed at night?
Guess what, buddy. That isn't love.
Or maybe, you and your lover have been together for years, and they've gotten into a horrible accident of some kind. They're a vegetable on life support, and you remember their words: "Never let me live like that," or "Never let me live that way!"
But you keep them alive, or you kill them, anyway.
For you. Because that's easier.
If love emerges from the guilt, from consequences, then it is a bittersweet love and twice as hard to leave it.
Even if you should.
Sacrifice.
Now, Trust and Sacrifice aren't all you need to make a relationship work, but they're the two that pop into my head for the situation I'm thinking about right now. There are others, others we must master. Ego; betrayal, Time, Faith, Balance, a prevailing sense of self-identity throughout it all, fuck it if there aren't countless more....
But you have to remember the one that's harder than self-doubt is.
Sometimes--my God, not always, far from always--sometimes, it is their fault this isn't working. Their fault they push you too hard or they take things from you, their fault that you lie to keep fire from each others' lips, their fault you plunge into a future life hasn't prepared you for yet. No matter how fast you've grown, how much you know, sometimes it isn't enough.
Humility. Another on the endless list.
Realize that you are hurting both of you if the situation calls for it. Realize that you aren't necessarily the best cure for them, no matter how uplifting it is to think (in your most secretive thoughts) of them throwing away their flaws for pure and selfless love.
That isn't how life is. You have to accept them--Acceptance. That goes for them too, is the thing. They have to accept you, as you are, as you will be and were. They can't be pissed that you have a past or are growing into a future that isn't the one they wanted. You have to be free.
Freedom. Another on the endless list.
Every relationship has flaws, but you need to stop and recognize when those flaws are poisoning the both of you, making your pure and selfless love a sure-fire way to end any relationship you might have, ever. Just because you're selfish. Just because you're doing that "life support" brand of wrong--
you have to listen to what they tell you. Same for them.
Both of you have to change to be together. I'm not talking the simple things, either, the "don't leave your dirty socks out and take your medication on time" things. The hard ones.
But you have to be who you are, or it destroys the point.
So you think on that, before you promise forever and just think it'll all be fine because you're a selfless hero who can take on anything. You think on that. Remember what happens when it all goes wrong, as, sometimes, it does; it must.
Think.
And not just for yourself.
But it isn't going to work without trust. If you don't believe that you can throw your lover into a room full of what tempts them, naked, have everybody else look like supermodels, and come out victorious, you shouldn't be together. If you don't want your lover to go out with their friends because they might get too drunk and rape somebody in a corner, don't be together.
If you have to smear the filth that you 'only have eyes for them' every morning, as certain as babies' breath at weddings, you shouldn't be together. Be honest with yourself. Look at your life. You don't only have eyes for them. Oh, right now, sure. But in ten minutes, when s/he walks by and your genitals set themselves on fire, is forever as sure? You have a flicker of doubt then, the smallest one, like a little tint of smoke over glass..
If you don't, you shouldn't be together. Your relationship isn't healthy or stable. Your love is a part of this world, not all of it. Otherwise you've been mentally fucked, either by yourself or them, and you need to get the fuck out of dodge.
Yeah. See what I did there?
If you wouldn't sacrifice for your lover, you shouldn't be together, either. Oh, I don't mean heroic sacrifices; you can wipe that smug grin off your face right now. I mean the type of sacrifices that are hard to do and easy to get wrong. I mean, suppose you aren't the right person for your lover. Would you leave them if you knew? What if you're keeping them from bliss and true happiness for a lie, just so you aren't lying alone in your bed at night?
Guess what, buddy. That isn't love.
Or maybe, you and your lover have been together for years, and they've gotten into a horrible accident of some kind. They're a vegetable on life support, and you remember their words: "Never let me live like that," or "Never let me live that way!"
But you keep them alive, or you kill them, anyway.
For you. Because that's easier.
If love emerges from the guilt, from consequences, then it is a bittersweet love and twice as hard to leave it.
Even if you should.
Sacrifice.
Now, Trust and Sacrifice aren't all you need to make a relationship work, but they're the two that pop into my head for the situation I'm thinking about right now. There are others, others we must master. Ego; betrayal, Time, Faith, Balance, a prevailing sense of self-identity throughout it all, fuck it if there aren't countless more....
But you have to remember the one that's harder than self-doubt is.
Sometimes--my God, not always, far from always--sometimes, it is their fault this isn't working. Their fault they push you too hard or they take things from you, their fault that you lie to keep fire from each others' lips, their fault you plunge into a future life hasn't prepared you for yet. No matter how fast you've grown, how much you know, sometimes it isn't enough.
Humility. Another on the endless list.
Realize that you are hurting both of you if the situation calls for it. Realize that you aren't necessarily the best cure for them, no matter how uplifting it is to think (in your most secretive thoughts) of them throwing away their flaws for pure and selfless love.
That isn't how life is. You have to accept them--Acceptance. That goes for them too, is the thing. They have to accept you, as you are, as you will be and were. They can't be pissed that you have a past or are growing into a future that isn't the one they wanted. You have to be free.
Freedom. Another on the endless list.
Every relationship has flaws, but you need to stop and recognize when those flaws are poisoning the both of you, making your pure and selfless love a sure-fire way to end any relationship you might have, ever. Just because you're selfish. Just because you're doing that "life support" brand of wrong--
you have to listen to what they tell you. Same for them.
Both of you have to change to be together. I'm not talking the simple things, either, the "don't leave your dirty socks out and take your medication on time" things. The hard ones.
But you have to be who you are, or it destroys the point.
So you think on that, before you promise forever and just think it'll all be fine because you're a selfless hero who can take on anything. You think on that. Remember what happens when it all goes wrong, as, sometimes, it does; it must.
Think.
And not just for yourself.
Tuesday, May 21, 2013
Wild: About to lose the laptop; the "just in case" file
one of fucking many... discarded for being too flowery and having no direction. Revise and edit the shit out of this, the words are working too hard.
What I have so far...
I think the idea I have on my phone and this dribble could speak together. Even (especially?) if the prose is too flowery. Remember, he's not from some burned city. He's actually spoken to the man whose dreams make you die (hypothetically).
omg. perfect.
Anselm walked in a styled ruggedness on the only road to Finard in a state of semi-illusion. Brushing his black bangs from his thin face. He was tall, strong, and handsome. His skin was dark, like ground coffee leaves (which also glowed a slight gold), and silver-brown eyes, a strange combination of the ordinary and extraordinary, glared with a harsh anger at the forest-lined dirt road.
His left ear was pierced, and shone brightly to the sun, even reaching beyond the tree line of the woods of Arnoc. And if this piece of knowledge was quite unfortunate for him, it was only because four members of a band of thieves lay waiting for the next man traveling alone, he happened to be traveling alone, and it was almost dusk. The red sun was sinking over the horizon of flowing green grass, (for Anselm had almost made it from the woods) saying-goodbye to the nearest town, which he could see sparkling in the distance, a silhouette against the lazy sky.
A small stone sign lay waiting on the road.
“Finard, two miles,” he murmured to himself--and the thieves were upon him. They were dressed in a combination of stinking rags and the finest cloths available (those spun from spiders’ silk and moonbeam reams), so Anselm knew them exactly for what they were.
“ ‘Finard, two miles’,” mimicked a thief with a scratch where his left eye should be. “’Twoud be our greatest honor to guide you to Finard, sir, for as you can see, we are merely a brand of connoisseur whose talent is unrecognized.”
“Your guidance would perhaps require the return of my empty pocketbook?” The lesser thieves looked at Left-eye, who stared at him with narrow eyes, tossing the bag to Anselm, who caught it with an effortless hand. “And now mine, I think,” continued this victim of robbery, “You see, this is a look a like.”
Swearing, the Thief lord tossed Anselm another pocketbook--his own.
“You may have this one,” said Anselm, “I will leave the thieving to you, if there is any to be done.” He slew the decoy back to lord Left-eye, the king of Arnoc wood, with such force that when he caught it, he stepped back twice, bumping into a tree.
“Who are you?” Asked one of the lesser thieves, a boy no older than twelve.
“My name is Anselm Ysabel,” he said, “and I am the horsemaster of Dickensale.”
Murmuring went through the men, worried glances.
“Dickensale has been ash for less than a fortnight, sir, and you are already two miles from the Quartz Gate?” Asked Left-eye, as snippets of the others’ conversation-- “how did he escape?” and “But the witch--” were heard.
Anselm’s silver-brown eyes glimmered in the moonlight, daring the thieves to challenge him.
“If you would rob a man who seeks to avenge his village--slain women and children--step forward,” he snarled, no longer civil, no longer staring at the ground, but now at each of the thieves in turn; “for I have been touched by magic”--the men took a step back from him-- “and you would be a fool to parley with me, because I will kill you. If once the idea of killing a fellow down on his luck perturbed me, that weakness has passed by my circumstance.”
The thieves stared at his eyes--his eyes searing their souls--and all but one melted into the forest.
“No Thief of mine will again make the mistake of hindering you,” he said. “Should you ever need aid, light a fire with Wolfsbane; and we shall assist you.”
Anselm nodded his thanks.
With Left-eye watching, he continued to walk down, reaching the city of Finard just as the sun rose for their village.
“Gods keep you,” murmured Left-eye.
***
The village of Finard had not changed in half a century. The lower class had mud-built, straw-thatched roofs in the living district (still called the living district), and the high class had halls of white marble and doors in cherry wood, edged with gold. The market district (with its’ bright-tipped tents and stalls) sold the market materials, the arts (with its consistently and exclusively bright purple tents) the arts, and that was that.
Today, however, there was one particular individual who cursed the injustices of this highly-practical--and specifically organized--example of archaism.
“You will give me this stand,” she said, indicating the nearest empty stall, with its fine covering of Robin’s egg blue.
The bearded man (the manager of the First Market district), shook his head. “I am sorry,” he replied, almost sincerely, “but you wares do not belong among these stands, Sorceress. Magic, food and barter are not meant to be together--what if some child should trade his dinner for your lack of? I am not in disrespect of your talent or power, sweet-friend, but I must bar your path--the Arts’ district, perhaps?” And ambled away towards the red tent there-next, which sold peaches.
And so our Sorceress--the witch of the blue-black hair and color-changing eyes--moved to the Art Market, who told her a self-same tale:
“I am very sorry, Witch-of-all-witches,” purred the equally beautiful art-guild in a voice like a babbling spring, “but we, we sell art.” Her voice was raw with a passion, one which bored now this twice-rejected magic-maker. “Art is made by love and feeling, not a waving carvers’ discard or a wayward writers’ phrase.”
And the sorceresses’ eyes were now yellow, with orange rims.
“Of course,” she said, but when she left, there was a frog on the ground behind her…. And for three and a half days, no one could find the director of the Arts’ district, who to this day spoke with a bit of a croak.
***
When Anselm arrived in Finard, he found himself in the Market district, and the smell of food--food, something Anselm, like most medieval men, was rather fond thereof--and half-dragged, half-sprinted himself to the peach stand.
“Peaches,” he murmured, “she loved peaches….”
“Unless you and I share the gift of premonition, stranger,” called a woman, “you are tallying without purpose, which suggests weariness, and staring without seeing, which suggests horror. Horror and weariness means…..?”
Anselm stared. Not only at her unnecessary boldness, but also her appearance. The stranger had calming grey eyes, like a storm upon the sea one saw from a distance, which stared at him in combination with an irksome half-smile with the radiance of fresh-fallen mountain snow.
Her skin was light brown, like coffee mixed with cream, and around that small face of coffee-smooth skin was the blue-black hair of a wraith.
She was clad in a multi-layered rag-dress, much like a Pagan or Gypsy’s, and--
“Your name would be nice before I depart my wisdom, stranger,” said Anselm. “Have you seen the Market Manager? I have much desire to speak with him.”
The beautiful woman glanced in the direction of a large badger who seemed to have a beard. “He’s unavailable at the moment,” she said, “come to my stand? We may wait for him,” and guided him to that next to the peach stand, a strange stall of robin’s egg blue.
Anselm’s silver-brown eyes beheld his surroundings defensively.
“You’re a Sorceress!” he spat. “Devilment! Trickery! Soul-stealer!”
“Sorceresses deal with souls,” she said boredly, “I am a witch, which is much less limiting but with half the potential. Ah! Which is the witch!” The not-sorceress cackled wildly, and Anselm took a step away.
“Your name, Witch,” he said, and although he said it evenly, the enchantress thought it prudent not to prone the fire that rested behind those silv’n eyes.
“Taesha Blacwin,” she replied. “How may I be of help to you, sir…” Her eyes flashed pink, and Anselm stared.
“Anselm,” he said, “I also apologize, Aggie Blacwin, for no help may be born me by your dealings. What I need is---”
“The Market manager!” said the Peach vendor (a fat fellow with a sheltered upbringing), “Look at him!”
Ah, the Manager of the First Market District had had quite an unspeakable morning. His beard, apparently false, was askew; his clothing torn, rumpled, and stained, and all of that persona of his stank of the wild and the unwashed streets of the city--
And he was headed for the witch with an angry, pointing finger.
“You,” he mouthed, and she smiled, a huge, entertaining smile like she’d seen a puppy recently, and then he spoke again (audibly this time), a horrible dark undertone, “you!”
“Lucky you, Anselm Ysabel of Dickensale, Horse-master of the ash-made ruin,” she said, completely ignoring the Manager despite her roguish smile entirely for his benefit, “May I offer you a cup of tea, and--oh, my word!” the witch feigned surprise, “You’ve found the manager!”
With a poof of colored smoke, she was gone, leaving Anselm alone with a (very angry) former badger.
***
*curse: For every person you meet, you will know their greatest shame.
What I have so far...
I think the idea I have on my phone and this dribble could speak together. Even (especially?) if the prose is too flowery. Remember, he's not from some burned city. He's actually spoken to the man whose dreams make you die (hypothetically).
omg. perfect.
Anselm walked in a styled ruggedness on the only road to Finard in a state of semi-illusion. Brushing his black bangs from his thin face. He was tall, strong, and handsome. His skin was dark, like ground coffee leaves (which also glowed a slight gold), and silver-brown eyes, a strange combination of the ordinary and extraordinary, glared with a harsh anger at the forest-lined dirt road.
His left ear was pierced, and shone brightly to the sun, even reaching beyond the tree line of the woods of Arnoc. And if this piece of knowledge was quite unfortunate for him, it was only because four members of a band of thieves lay waiting for the next man traveling alone, he happened to be traveling alone, and it was almost dusk. The red sun was sinking over the horizon of flowing green grass, (for Anselm had almost made it from the woods) saying-goodbye to the nearest town, which he could see sparkling in the distance, a silhouette against the lazy sky.
A small stone sign lay waiting on the road.
“Finard, two miles,” he murmured to himself--and the thieves were upon him. They were dressed in a combination of stinking rags and the finest cloths available (those spun from spiders’ silk and moonbeam reams), so Anselm knew them exactly for what they were.
“ ‘Finard, two miles’,” mimicked a thief with a scratch where his left eye should be. “’Twoud be our greatest honor to guide you to Finard, sir, for as you can see, we are merely a brand of connoisseur whose talent is unrecognized.”
“Your guidance would perhaps require the return of my empty pocketbook?” The lesser thieves looked at Left-eye, who stared at him with narrow eyes, tossing the bag to Anselm, who caught it with an effortless hand. “And now mine, I think,” continued this victim of robbery, “You see, this is a look a like.”
Swearing, the Thief lord tossed Anselm another pocketbook--his own.
“You may have this one,” said Anselm, “I will leave the thieving to you, if there is any to be done.” He slew the decoy back to lord Left-eye, the king of Arnoc wood, with such force that when he caught it, he stepped back twice, bumping into a tree.
“Who are you?” Asked one of the lesser thieves, a boy no older than twelve.
“My name is Anselm Ysabel,” he said, “and I am the horsemaster of Dickensale.”
Murmuring went through the men, worried glances.
“Dickensale has been ash for less than a fortnight, sir, and you are already two miles from the Quartz Gate?” Asked Left-eye, as snippets of the others’ conversation-- “how did he escape?” and “But the witch--” were heard.
Anselm’s silver-brown eyes glimmered in the moonlight, daring the thieves to challenge him.
“If you would rob a man who seeks to avenge his village--slain women and children--step forward,” he snarled, no longer civil, no longer staring at the ground, but now at each of the thieves in turn; “for I have been touched by magic”--the men took a step back from him-- “and you would be a fool to parley with me, because I will kill you. If once the idea of killing a fellow down on his luck perturbed me, that weakness has passed by my circumstance.”
The thieves stared at his eyes--his eyes searing their souls--and all but one melted into the forest.
“No Thief of mine will again make the mistake of hindering you,” he said. “Should you ever need aid, light a fire with Wolfsbane; and we shall assist you.”
Anselm nodded his thanks.
With Left-eye watching, he continued to walk down, reaching the city of Finard just as the sun rose for their village.
“Gods keep you,” murmured Left-eye.
***
The village of Finard had not changed in half a century. The lower class had mud-built, straw-thatched roofs in the living district (still called the living district), and the high class had halls of white marble and doors in cherry wood, edged with gold. The market district (with its’ bright-tipped tents and stalls) sold the market materials, the arts (with its consistently and exclusively bright purple tents) the arts, and that was that.
Today, however, there was one particular individual who cursed the injustices of this highly-practical--and specifically organized--example of archaism.
“You will give me this stand,” she said, indicating the nearest empty stall, with its fine covering of Robin’s egg blue.
The bearded man (the manager of the First Market district), shook his head. “I am sorry,” he replied, almost sincerely, “but you wares do not belong among these stands, Sorceress. Magic, food and barter are not meant to be together--what if some child should trade his dinner for your lack of? I am not in disrespect of your talent or power, sweet-friend, but I must bar your path--the Arts’ district, perhaps?” And ambled away towards the red tent there-next, which sold peaches.
And so our Sorceress--the witch of the blue-black hair and color-changing eyes--moved to the Art Market, who told her a self-same tale:
“I am very sorry, Witch-of-all-witches,” purred the equally beautiful art-guild in a voice like a babbling spring, “but we, we sell art.” Her voice was raw with a passion, one which bored now this twice-rejected magic-maker. “Art is made by love and feeling, not a waving carvers’ discard or a wayward writers’ phrase.”
And the sorceresses’ eyes were now yellow, with orange rims.
“Of course,” she said, but when she left, there was a frog on the ground behind her…. And for three and a half days, no one could find the director of the Arts’ district, who to this day spoke with a bit of a croak.
***
When Anselm arrived in Finard, he found himself in the Market district, and the smell of food--food, something Anselm, like most medieval men, was rather fond thereof--and half-dragged, half-sprinted himself to the peach stand.
“Peaches,” he murmured, “she loved peaches….”
“Unless you and I share the gift of premonition, stranger,” called a woman, “you are tallying without purpose, which suggests weariness, and staring without seeing, which suggests horror. Horror and weariness means…..?”
Anselm stared. Not only at her unnecessary boldness, but also her appearance. The stranger had calming grey eyes, like a storm upon the sea one saw from a distance, which stared at him in combination with an irksome half-smile with the radiance of fresh-fallen mountain snow.
Her skin was light brown, like coffee mixed with cream, and around that small face of coffee-smooth skin was the blue-black hair of a wraith.
She was clad in a multi-layered rag-dress, much like a Pagan or Gypsy’s, and--
“Your name would be nice before I depart my wisdom, stranger,” said Anselm. “Have you seen the Market Manager? I have much desire to speak with him.”
The beautiful woman glanced in the direction of a large badger who seemed to have a beard. “He’s unavailable at the moment,” she said, “come to my stand? We may wait for him,” and guided him to that next to the peach stand, a strange stall of robin’s egg blue.
Anselm’s silver-brown eyes beheld his surroundings defensively.
“You’re a Sorceress!” he spat. “Devilment! Trickery! Soul-stealer!”
“Sorceresses deal with souls,” she said boredly, “I am a witch, which is much less limiting but with half the potential. Ah! Which is the witch!” The not-sorceress cackled wildly, and Anselm took a step away.
“Your name, Witch,” he said, and although he said it evenly, the enchantress thought it prudent not to prone the fire that rested behind those silv’n eyes.
“Taesha Blacwin,” she replied. “How may I be of help to you, sir…” Her eyes flashed pink, and Anselm stared.
“Anselm,” he said, “I also apologize, Aggie Blacwin, for no help may be born me by your dealings. What I need is---”
“The Market manager!” said the Peach vendor (a fat fellow with a sheltered upbringing), “Look at him!”
Ah, the Manager of the First Market District had had quite an unspeakable morning. His beard, apparently false, was askew; his clothing torn, rumpled, and stained, and all of that persona of his stank of the wild and the unwashed streets of the city--
And he was headed for the witch with an angry, pointing finger.
“You,” he mouthed, and she smiled, a huge, entertaining smile like she’d seen a puppy recently, and then he spoke again (audibly this time), a horrible dark undertone, “you!”
“Lucky you, Anselm Ysabel of Dickensale, Horse-master of the ash-made ruin,” she said, completely ignoring the Manager despite her roguish smile entirely for his benefit, “May I offer you a cup of tea, and--oh, my word!” the witch feigned surprise, “You’ve found the manager!”
With a poof of colored smoke, she was gone, leaving Anselm alone with a (very angry) former badger.
***
*curse: For every person you meet, you will know their greatest shame.
Monday, February 18, 2013
Wild: She Took Me Out
She took me out,
for Valentine's day.
She woke me up,
she said she had
a surprise for me;
would I like to go to breakfast?
I wasn't hungry,
but we went out.
We had a drive.
We made phone-calls.
We left the city, and I breathed again
for the first time since I came home from Greenville,
I breathed the air that welcomed my use of it,
the air that doesn't wretch me, hurt me;
air that doesn't hate my lungs.
She smoked.
I close my eyes.
That smell
is my smell
and she should stop, should not
but I can't voice it
because there's our music, on the radio,
and her voice is humming our song.
We come to Milwaukee,
and my heart is fluttering
for our adventure
that she's with me.
We come to the Museum.
There's an exhibit on Pirates.
We go.
We walk.
We walk.
We laugh.
I'm frightened. She drags me, pulls me, pats me.
It's okay. Come see this.
I go,
I smile,
we eat the food we smuggled in;
I cling to her arm.
We leave,
one fake doubloon heavier;
the only one that had a crescent moon along it's edge.
I press it against my face.
Safe. Happy.
Hungry? She inquires.
I nod.
She takes me.
Low-lights. New food. Smiling.
Rose bar across the street, decorated in the colors of the Templeton family.
Don't care, I realize with surprise;
safe here.
I eat the new food, too tired to speak
I smile and smile and smile
until even my eyes are smiling
until she smiles back, and takes my hand
and reminds our waitress not to bring lemons.
Mine.
Mine.
I finger my coin, and look up:
another young couple.
A college boy, a college girl
bearded, too thin;
brown-haired, blond,
pale, vaguely orange.
I smile as soon as I see them.
She's smiling, too
and I notice that her smile's like Regina's, from Mean Girls
and that her hand is pointing
under the table, though I can see it,
at me.
Me, seated against the wall, with no one behind me.
She's not looking at Katie at all.
She jerks her head towards me in what I suppose is meant to be a subtle motion,
and the boy turns, equally subtle, to look at me.
They look at each other and laugh, quietly, to each other.
I excuse myself.
I can't keep my eyes up as I get to the bathroom, as I hurdle myself inside to check.
Was my sweater crooked?
Is there something wrong with my hair, maybe.
My makeup's worn off, is that it?
No.
I look mostly okay, a little ragged from walking, nothing too askew.
I must just be ugly, I decide with a sinking heart,
and am sad for Katie.
Wanted to be beautiful today.
I come back, smiling, sneaking glances at the boy-girl couple, the one who laughs
and they laugh
and they look
every, oh, five minutes or so.
I can't look up.
I can't smile.
I sink down into myself and let my hair fall over my face.
Ugly.
Katie notices.
Payton. Why are you doing that?
Doing what?
That. Hiding like that.
I eye them, then Katie, then them again.
Payton, you can't let every jerk off the street get you down. There's nothing wrong with you, I promise. You look beautiful until you stop smiling--there, that's better.
High school isn't ever going to leave me, is it?
We leave. There are leftovers. I bolus.
We drive to my Parent's house, promised to stop by
Taylor's Seizing.
Run. Run. Too fast; I fall down the stairs and am immediately up again,
running.
My sister.
Hurt?
Whimpering. Mother next to her. Bad. Shit. Badbadstopbad--help her.
We go home.
We go to sleep.
I love Katie.
I love her.
I'm happy with her.
The rest of this world is so fucked up.
for Valentine's day.
She woke me up,
she said she had
a surprise for me;
would I like to go to breakfast?
I wasn't hungry,
but we went out.
We had a drive.
We made phone-calls.
We left the city, and I breathed again
for the first time since I came home from Greenville,
I breathed the air that welcomed my use of it,
the air that doesn't wretch me, hurt me;
air that doesn't hate my lungs.
She smoked.
I close my eyes.
That smell
is my smell
and she should stop, should not
but I can't voice it
because there's our music, on the radio,
and her voice is humming our song.
We come to Milwaukee,
and my heart is fluttering
for our adventure
that she's with me.
We come to the Museum.
There's an exhibit on Pirates.
We go.
We walk.
We walk.
We laugh.
I'm frightened. She drags me, pulls me, pats me.
It's okay. Come see this.
I go,
I smile,
we eat the food we smuggled in;
I cling to her arm.
We leave,
one fake doubloon heavier;
the only one that had a crescent moon along it's edge.
I press it against my face.
Safe. Happy.
Hungry? She inquires.
I nod.
She takes me.
Low-lights. New food. Smiling.
Rose bar across the street, decorated in the colors of the Templeton family.
Don't care, I realize with surprise;
safe here.
I eat the new food, too tired to speak
I smile and smile and smile
until even my eyes are smiling
until she smiles back, and takes my hand
and reminds our waitress not to bring lemons.
Mine.
Mine.
I finger my coin, and look up:
another young couple.
A college boy, a college girl
bearded, too thin;
brown-haired, blond,
pale, vaguely orange.
I smile as soon as I see them.
She's smiling, too
and I notice that her smile's like Regina's, from Mean Girls
and that her hand is pointing
under the table, though I can see it,
at me.
Me, seated against the wall, with no one behind me.
She's not looking at Katie at all.
She jerks her head towards me in what I suppose is meant to be a subtle motion,
and the boy turns, equally subtle, to look at me.
They look at each other and laugh, quietly, to each other.
I excuse myself.
I can't keep my eyes up as I get to the bathroom, as I hurdle myself inside to check.
Was my sweater crooked?
Is there something wrong with my hair, maybe.
My makeup's worn off, is that it?
No.
I look mostly okay, a little ragged from walking, nothing too askew.
I must just be ugly, I decide with a sinking heart,
and am sad for Katie.
Wanted to be beautiful today.
I come back, smiling, sneaking glances at the boy-girl couple, the one who laughs
and they laugh
and they look
every, oh, five minutes or so.
I can't look up.
I can't smile.
I sink down into myself and let my hair fall over my face.
Ugly.
Katie notices.
Payton. Why are you doing that?
Doing what?
That. Hiding like that.
I eye them, then Katie, then them again.
Payton, you can't let every jerk off the street get you down. There's nothing wrong with you, I promise. You look beautiful until you stop smiling--there, that's better.
High school isn't ever going to leave me, is it?
We leave. There are leftovers. I bolus.
We drive to my Parent's house, promised to stop by
Taylor's Seizing.
Run. Run. Too fast; I fall down the stairs and am immediately up again,
running.
My sister.
Hurt?
Whimpering. Mother next to her. Bad. Shit. Badbadstopbad--help her.
We go home.
We go to sleep.
I love Katie.
I love her.
I'm happy with her.
The rest of this world is so fucked up.
Tuesday, January 8, 2013
Wild: Diabetes
I don't feel like being poetic today. I don't feel like being demure or docile, gentle or patient. I want to punch holes through the thin walls of my apartment. I want to kick down some doors and scream and cry like an incessant three-year-old child. That--that's what I want.
What am I going to do instead? Clean things. Take care of Katie. Make dinner.
But I hate this.
I could normally becalm myself by saying that it could be worse, could be cancer. Maybe that I can have better control.
But none of that shit matters, none of those excuses, matter, when I have an empty vial of insulin and I have to climb sixteen fucking bureaucratic ladders of bullshit as the Victim to get more.
I have to sit in a chair and have somebody who read about my life out of textbooks say, You're doing everything you can do. Try XyC instead of Xyb, because that might make a difference. I have to listen of two hours of some doctor guess. Guess about my life and lifestyle.
Oh, those doctors aren't there when my girlfriend has to revive me from seizures. Those people behind the counter at Walgreen's aren't going to have to make the phone call to my mother of, yes, mom, we are out of insulin, yes, mom, please could we borrow the money so we don't go into a coma and die?
I shouldn't be dependent on other people for a condition that is with me until I die, probably five to ten years younger than most people my age will die. I should be able to get insulin myself. I don't need a prescription, I don't need the "free consultation" that everybody offers. I need my insulin, my supplies, an R2D2--and that's fucking it. That is all.
I understand bolusing and basaling. I get it. I fucking comprehend that if I test my blood sugar sixteen times a day and program my pump with eleventy-hundred basal rates, my blood sugar will be perfect until the day I trip over the million things I can trip over. The week I'm at the beach, the day I under bolus for dinner because it's weird foreign food I've never had and I didn't want to take a half hour to figure it out. Or maybe the day I'm at the Zoo and I run out of test strips because it was a surprise trip and I thought we were only going to breakfast.
Fuck this.
Fuck this.
I hate this. I hate this and there's nothing I can do, nothing anyone can do.
For the first time in my life, I'm not reasonable. I'm not going to be patient and kind. I'm going to be jaded and fractious.
Even with Katie, it feels like almost nothing is going right right now.
Nothing.
What am I going to do instead? Clean things. Take care of Katie. Make dinner.
But I hate this.
I could normally becalm myself by saying that it could be worse, could be cancer. Maybe that I can have better control.
But none of that shit matters, none of those excuses, matter, when I have an empty vial of insulin and I have to climb sixteen fucking bureaucratic ladders of bullshit as the Victim to get more.
I have to sit in a chair and have somebody who read about my life out of textbooks say, You're doing everything you can do. Try XyC instead of Xyb, because that might make a difference. I have to listen of two hours of some doctor guess. Guess about my life and lifestyle.
Oh, those doctors aren't there when my girlfriend has to revive me from seizures. Those people behind the counter at Walgreen's aren't going to have to make the phone call to my mother of, yes, mom, we are out of insulin, yes, mom, please could we borrow the money so we don't go into a coma and die?
I shouldn't be dependent on other people for a condition that is with me until I die, probably five to ten years younger than most people my age will die. I should be able to get insulin myself. I don't need a prescription, I don't need the "free consultation" that everybody offers. I need my insulin, my supplies, an R2D2--and that's fucking it. That is all.
I understand bolusing and basaling. I get it. I fucking comprehend that if I test my blood sugar sixteen times a day and program my pump with eleventy-hundred basal rates, my blood sugar will be perfect until the day I trip over the million things I can trip over. The week I'm at the beach, the day I under bolus for dinner because it's weird foreign food I've never had and I didn't want to take a half hour to figure it out. Or maybe the day I'm at the Zoo and I run out of test strips because it was a surprise trip and I thought we were only going to breakfast.
Fuck this.
Fuck this.
I hate this. I hate this and there's nothing I can do, nothing anyone can do.
For the first time in my life, I'm not reasonable. I'm not going to be patient and kind. I'm going to be jaded and fractious.
Even with Katie, it feels like almost nothing is going right right now.
Nothing.
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