Monday, April 4, 2011

Elle

There's no evidence here of an empty canvas.
Before me is only a tainted one with irreversible scrapes and bruises; I call them memories.

My story, written before me for the world to see through the street-side window is a mere embarrassment of mishap, mispronunciation, and misunderstood soliloquies that got me no further than the door, and interested in no other destination but his bed.

The dance, our dance, perfectly choreographed, was God's way of telling me "Elle, it's time to go!"
It was beautiful.
It made sense to no one, but it made sense to us.

The day she kicked me out was the day I never felt more liberated. It was embraced.

Thursday, March 31, 2011

Supplements

A supplementary love affair with a supplementary drug,
to take me higher than before.
The chord on life unplugged.

A supplementary dream to a supplementary life.
The dance is all an illusion.
The rhythm cuts like a knife.

A supplementary agenda to a supplementary goal.
Sashaying and twirling, embracing my feet,
barefoot across hot coals.

A supplementary friend for a supplementary need.
My legs won't allow for escape.
On my brain she needs to feed.

A supplementary pillow aids in some supplementary sleep.
The well is dry and dusty.
There's no wool left on the sheep.

Nevermore a Woman

I am not a woman,
although it may appear so.
These breasts, these dreams, these dainty little hands.
Their purposes are irrelevant. Absolutely useless.

I am not a woman,
although it may appear so.
My heart and my soul, as altruistic as they may seem,
can never supplement my ultimate desires.

I am not a woman,
although it may appear so.
I lie down on my side afraid to sleep,
haunted by the secrets I hide.

I am not a woman,
although it may appear so.
As helpless as it may appear,
it's much worse than the sins of the saints and the untruths in the allegory.

I am not a woman,
although it may appear so.
I can't give you what you need.
Ugly and tainted, our fate is unknown.

I am not a woman,
although it may appear so.
I watch in envy as they become all I ever wanted,
as as she takes all I ever needed.

I am not a woman,
although it may appear so.
I will always be a lady,
but nevermore a woman.

Monday, March 28, 2011

"Goodnight"

"National Security recommends everyone settle in low lying areas in your homes. Basements are preferable, but..." The static of the AM radio succumbed to God's fury, as well.

Locking eyes, they could see into each other's souls for the first time in years. Deep down, however, nothing was the same. What once was filled with an inexplicable desire to be one had split into two separate entities that lived in different shelters under the same roof.

A tear streamed down her emotionless face as she selfishly yearned to turn back time and undo all of her plastic spells and take back all of her empty words. He stared blankly at her feet in shame for betraying her for months of pseudo-paradise in a pseudo-candy land of hedonistic pleasure.

Perhaps their fate was mere symbolism for what already was. Regardless, they walked hand-in-hand to the front porch together to await consequence.

From afar, there it was; a surreal reality to equalize all and leave no one behind.

Embraced for one last time, the world before them turned white.

"See you soon, my love. Goodnight..."

Red Lipstick

We've got to make amends with what's good.
Comfortability must be found in what's good rather than what is familiar.
Familiarity is what killed the cat, not curiosity.
Curiosity never killed anyone but the ignorant and unaware.
Understood?

Standing in front of the mirror with nothing, not even her dignity,
all that was visible were her body's stories of everything but triumph and trophies.
The Venus's power no longer warmed her,
and no man's touch devalued her more than her own.
Death seemed too easy, yet living too complicated.

Staring back at her were her father's eyes,
only a bit lighter in shade, but darker in substance.
She'd learned to live like him, too;
spending countless nights nearly transparent in front of a crowd
feeling nothing but what the powder allowed.

The powder allowed so much.
Oh, the chemical monster's golden chariot of endless possibilities and kite rides above the clouds.
Temporary euphoria was better than none.

"I'd rather be a sinner with tall tales to tell,
than a saint with regrets of no falls being fell."
In red lipstick read the mirror.
But being a sinner with regrets was never part of the plan.

Friday, February 18, 2011

SHORT STORY TIME: "Monster"

I am regretting that night tonight after some wine and coke more than I have ever regretted it; and I have been around for centuries. Three hundred years I’ve been roaming. Wandering aimlessly has turned into more of a burden than an adventure. Yes it’s cold, but my heart still aches as if the blood was pumping through it.

“I have no choice. It’s my job.” Those words forever resonate despite the scenery or the poison I inject.

He was able to love again. He even started a family. Through the grapevine 30 or so years ago I heard she even bore him four children. That’s something I never could have done for him. I’m sure he made a wonderful father.

I keep a careful distance from our past, because the nostalgia is suffocating. Although I am too empty to keep living these pseudo lives as pseudo people, I am too cowardly to die. Hell won’t be any more fun than this place, and I am not ready to face my demons; however, when I can’t bear the memories any longer, there’s still one selfish ounce of me that hopes he’s there in Hell waiting for me like I walk the earth waiting for him.

Saturday, February 5, 2011

SHORT STORY TIME: "Distance"

Although only a queen-sized bed, the distance between us felt like miles. A million miles separated us in the six inches of air actually there. I’d been waking up to a stranger for quite some time.

For years my heart held on to the memories of who we were, what we once stood for, and how our dreams used to dictate every single adventure we embarked on together. Those days had been over. We’d forgotten all of the good.

By no means had I grown to hate him; but I no longer loved him. I no longer lusted after his chestnut eyes. My skin was no longer hungry for his touch. His presence numbed my soul. My presence affected him similarly, which had become wonderfully satisfying.

He hadn’t touched me in six months. The cocktail of internet pornography and conference calls was his drug of choice. Although I found it disturbing, it allowed us to keep a rather healthy distance from each other. He hadn’t had physical contact with anyone else as far as I knew. Neither had I. I lacked desire. The well was dry.

“Becks?” He whispered with his shirtless back turned to me under our dirty flannel sheets.

The hair on the back of his head was thinner than I had remembered and his skin lacked color. The tone of his whisper must have heightened my senses, because every freckle on his back seemed to be under a spotlight.

I groaned in reply.

With a deep sigh, Dave rolled over to face me. His once solid black beard was now ridden with silver streaks and his eyes were empty and cold.

“Please sign the papers, Rebecca.” Emotionless, he rolled back over.

He hadn’t called me by my full first name in years. He couldn’t have been serious. Both of us knew deep down that signing the papers wouldn’t be beneficial. It would only validate our despair.

A chuckle was all that could escape me.

“Remember last Christmas, Dave?” I asked knowing his answer. How could either of us forget last Christmas? That was supposed to be our last dance together. After a three-day binge of whiskey and cocaine, we had impulsively decided to shower, get dressed in our Sunday’s Best, and go sit in a closed garage in the front seats of our running Honda Civic, with our iPod playlist on shuffle until we drifted away. If Dave hadn’t passed out while showering, I’m sure that Christmas would have been our last.

I rolled out of bed and stood by its side. Dave was snoring again.

A grin swooped across my face as I sashayed into the kitchen and pulled two clean glasses out of a recently ran dishwasher. One tall. One short. Opening the fridge was a little more disappointing. Its content was only the previous night’s Chinese takeout, a half-full month-old expired milk carton, and a gallon of Tropicana Orange Juice. Although I cared for orange juice as much as I cared for my morning nicotine withdrawals as I often realized I was out of cigarettes, neither the milk nor tap water seemed fitting.

From my tattered robe pocket, I pulled it out. My heart began to race as I poured every drop of this medicine bottle’s content into the taller of the two glasses. Dave and I were both going to get the solace that we’d been searching for.

In what seemed like slow motion, I crept into the bedroom.

I nudged him with the taller glass of the special cocktail. “Dave. Juice.”

He was no idiot. He knew.

Our eyes locked as we both chugged down the antidote to our poisonous lives.

I crawled back under the sheets. As he pulled me close, upon his chest was where I placed my head. I could hear it. His heart racing, pounding, screaming for redemption, suddenly stopped. For the last time his chest rose and fell and all was well.