Just Like CLOCKWORK

[ 9 a.m. coffee ]

2010-10-26T22:02:00.001-04:00

When her smile splashes warmly at you,
when her tepid eyes pour into your view...
when she spills her fingers
through those coffee colored curls...

As her giggles brew and bubble at your jokes,
as she caresses all your slow roasted hopes...
as her heart steams over
just to simmer in your ear...

Maybe when she's sipping sweetly at your neck,
and I'm boiling into one big fucking wreck...
maybe then you'll start to see
that she's not supposed to be...

Maybe then you'll see...
that the girl your kissing
should still be me.

[ sunday-driver sonnet ]

2010-10-26T22:00:00.000-04:00

The nostalgic gray of that autumn afternoon
soaked itself around our rain-drenched hearts.
Billie Holiday softly crackled her devoted tune,
singing about everything we loved in parts.

We skidded along route four-forty-three,
silent in our warm reminiscing,
yet your warmth beat quietly next to me,
and I only wished that we were kissing.

You grabbed my hand in a whispering way,
just enough to let me know you were there.
I had to smile softly at our quiet cliché,
of our Sunday-driver love affair.

The rain continued to drip on that tan '98 Buick roof,
but our smiles dripped together with all of our unneeded proof.

[ kissing in the rain ]

2010-10-13T22:27:00.002-04:00

The frigid rain sizzled
on the baking asphalt of my heart,
sprinkling wet scorch marks
where hatred once kindled.

Pleasured hisses drizzled
from the heated space between my lips,
where your kisses belonged
but only loneliness dripped.

The coal-black pavement
slipped into a skin of wet leaves,
just as the rain licked away
all that I left vacant.

The warmth of the moment
left something parched in my chest,
withering from thirst,
aching to be quenched.

The tinkling of the rain
melted a smile on my face,
my tarred heart still blistering
despite our burnt-out shivering.

[ kryptonite ]

2010-10-13T22:23:00.000-04:00

You are that churning sickness in my gut,
that boiling, brewing bile that burns my throat,
every time I think of you.

You walk those cracked sidewalks,
breaking backs with every step,
keeping stride with nothing but your narcissism.

I hate that fake red “S” on your chest;
you're not fooling anyone, you're no one's hero,
especially not mine.

If I jump from that rooftop,
I know you won't save me,
I know you'll never be waiting at the bottom again.

But still, I hide behind cubicle walls,
silently hoping for you,
that hero who will never come.

[ coward ]

2010-10-11T10:02:00.001-04:00

Problem 1: I have come to the definite conclusion that, in order for me to be happy, I have to marry my best friend. Not someone I care about, not someone I just love, but my best friend. The difficulty herein lies in the fact that my current best friend is gay and will never be interested in me. So until then, I tend to force people into meeting his standards.

Problem 2: My standards are ridiculously high. I've been romantically involved with 2 men. Each are lacking something. In one of them, it's love, in the other...well, he's just not my best friend. He gets me and can read me, makes me laugh, I love him, and I can have a great conversation with him. I could almost argue that he understands me more than my best friend...but there's something missing. I don't have the feelings that my best friend can give me. Not physical feelings, but the emotional ones. My best friend gives me that utter happiness and contendedness. Being around him is usually the best part of my day.

Problem 3: I hurt anyone who is even slightly interested in me. I hope and hope that they'll be the guy to sweep me off my feet, so I let them in a little. I let them see the real me for a little while hoping they up and run. Yet, so far, each guy has just been more drawn to me. So of course, hormones being hormones, I let them closer to me physically...because my train of thought is always, "Oh, hmm, maybe this WILL work". Yet to the guy, this of course is just another root I dig deep into his heart. Slowly though, I begin to realize that I still enjoy my best friend's company so much more than theirs. So after dragging this guy along for a while, what do I do? I freak myself out. I panic. I run. I usually tend to write this off as my over-abundance of independence. But see, now I know that I'm afraid of committment. I'm just a coward.

Disclaimer: I do not enjoy doing this to people. In fact, quite the opposite - I hate myself for it. I hate who I tend to be when this happens. But as much as I hate it, I cannot force myself to settle. I know I need to keep searching. I know that I have to be in love with the person before I marry him. Not just love, but IN love. It sucks, but it's the truth.

[ her silent cacophony ]

2010-10-04T22:56:00.002-04:00

The ugly girl is caressed by his touch;
she is an instrument - plucked apart, note by note,
creating a catastrophic quiet - a discordance of beauty.

She tunes in to the imperfections;
him, her, the bed - all imperfect when plucked individually.
Yet the strum, the beat, the rhythms created - that is harmony.

She knows how undeserving she is;
so she hides, disappearing into the sheets,
revealing her naked conscience and complications.

She drips into the cracks, lying bare with the cockroaches;
slipping silently beneath the bed,
afraid of her own nakedness.

Down there, her neighbors are cobwebs, her friends the carcasses of insects;
beneath there, she watches the feet of others,
safe from having to look down at her own.

That is everything though;
it all eventually hides under the bed forgotten,
it all slips through the cracks.

Finally, she stands naked and raw,
slipping back between the sheets and imperfections,
right where she belongs.

[ perfect stranger ]

2010-09-16T01:43:00.001-04:00

I watched you walking through the hall today.
You pounded down that corridor, pulsing back into my veins.

I thought of how we used to tease,
how our laughter sparkled, how our voices trickled.
How we wept.

The memories whispered off of me in the rush of a breath,
while in my head, I stopped you.

In that false reality, we apologized and forgot.
In that wretched place in my head, we started over new.

I wanted to scream and cling to you, aching to understand -
what was it that I did wrong?

The flutter of a heartbeat had passed, but nothing had changed.
We both smiled faintly.
We both kept walking.

[ seasons ]

2010-09-09T01:16:00.002-04:00

Her heart stops-
Flightless flutters and forgotten palpitations secure their terminal taunts,
Frost-bitten wisps of wingless things flit toward warmth and summer teardrops,
Perching in willows that weep for wishful wants.

She licks her lips-
Honey and wine drip from her insults, crisp autumn passions pop on her palette,
Euphoria crunches beneath her feet, sips of sanctity trickle down her hips,
While she gulps the heartache and vomit.

She is mislead-
Echoes of her sacrifice thunder and crash in the vacant hollows beneath her breast,
Creeks and trickles of the angel's mourning compose where they all fear to tread,
Dripping her regrets to places of unrest.

Her eyes smile-
A soft caress washes across her shore, ushering hushed promises into her harbor,
Waves crash and and ridicule her body, thrusting her into a maddening exile,
She faints, falling into a tide of seductive slumber.

[ smiling alone ]

2010-08-26T04:23:00.003-04:00

You know, someday, someone is going to read this and want to get to know me. We're going to talk and become best friends. I'll probably already be half in love with him by then, but, just like every other friendship, I'll only be the friend.

We'll watch movies, we'll laugh, I'll cry and he'll hold me. He'll answer the phone when I call. He'll want to be around me and initiate hanging out. Maybe he'll make me a CD, or play his guitar for me because we're friends and he knows that I like it. I'll probably crash at his house, because that's where I feel safe and fucking wanted for once. After a long night, he's feeling like shit, he'll come to me pissed off to just vent. I'll make him laugh and then we'll go get something to eat at 2am and feel better just to be in each others company. Afterwards, I'm thinking we'll kick each other's asses in video games, then maybe wrestle and beat each other up. Our laughter would wake someone up, and we'd just end up laughing more. Then we'd talk the rest of the night, until the sun started coming up and we bitched and moaned about how we needed to be up early. We'd finally fall asleep, and you wouldn't care if I ended up holding onto you while I slept, because we'd just be friends and we're both lonely.

Just friends of course. I'd never tell him that I loved him.

And then one day, he would realize that this best friend is someone he could spend the rest of his life with. With all of her flaws - her huge, short body would be something he found beautiful, the way she gets angry and jealous would be something cute to him. He'd love the smile on her face. He'd love making her laugh, being the one to put that smile on her face. And every time she'd cry, he'd realize that it hurt him, and he'd want to take all of that pain away. Yes, he would realize all of this, but he would keep it to himself for fear of ruining a wonderful friendship.

Yet, eventually, the girl would break down. There would be a night that she would curl into herself in fear, anger at herself - she'd despise every part of her being because no one would ever feel the passion and love she felt for life and for people. As a final, pathetic hope, she would reach out to her best friend (because again, that was where she felt safe and wanted). For the thousandth time, she would fall into his arms in tears, hopeless (because he was her last hope) and broken. This time though, after wiping away her tears, his hands wouldn't move from her face. He'd stare at her, afraid of what he was about to do, but regardless, he'd do it. She'd cry again though because, for once, the love and passion she poured into someone would finally be returned. Someone finally saw the beauty she saw in herself.

Yes...one day someone will read this.

[ her silent cacophony ]

2010-08-17T01:14:00.001-04:00

These were the summer nights of perfection. Two imperfect people wrapped in the sheets of delusion, swimming in their bed of insanity.

The ugly girl is caressed by his touch; she is an instrument - plucked apart note by note to create a catastrophic quiet - a cacophony of beauty. Her hair, her eyes, and her lips tuned into the imperfections that surround her. Him, her, the bed - all are imperfect when plucked individually. Yet the strum, the beat, the rhythms created are all music - perfection, harmony, and beauty.

Naked.

Silent.

She realizes how imperfect she is, how undeserving she manages to remain. Even in the soft moonlight, her skin melts away, disappearing into sheets of simplicity, revealing all of her naked conscience and complications. She drips into the cracks and lays bare with cockroaches and forgotten dreams. She slips silently beneath the bed, afraid of her own nakedness. Underneath there, everything is fake. It is there in the darkness that she feels the tired weight of overbearing obscenities lift. Beneath there, she finds another world, one where she belongs, where she can watch the feet of others without having to look down at her own. Her neighbors are the cobwebs, the carcasses of insects, forgotten hopes - nothing that will ever judge her.

Hidden.

Simplistic.

That is everything though. All of it eventually hides under the bed forgotten, all of it slips between the cracks. her skin, though melted and lost, leaves her raw. Everything burns. After the mask slips, putting it back on is useless. A new one is made, created from the 3 a.m. imperfections she finds. She finds them within herself, between the frets of a melancholy tune plucked only for her. She finds another imperfection in the cotton sheets, slinking its way over to her in a sinful fashion. The venom sinks in, the fruit is bitten, the music dies - from here on out, venom, sins, and sugar pump through her veins. No more blood, no more tears - everything is real.

Finally, another layer is shed, a new beginning flows. With salt in her wounds, she stands naked and raw, quiet before the world. In her silent cacophony she slips back between the sheets and imperfections, right where she belongs.