me and october 12. 2014

i think you still exist. you still don’t exist, don’t you?

your mind goes crazy for me circling the sunset – wrapped imagination arms around single thoughts that lie behind the brain spark in thoughts, exaggerating the moments, screaming, & seizing allowing the darkness to sometimes be the example –

death – the funeral audience bending over backwards for a glance at the final production. stop watch, calender reminders, unwanted phone calls after rainstorms, leaping into the middle of a nightmare, an angel beside the bed. way to hover, you fucker. sneeze. explode. make love to scribbles and unconditional answers. scars & water. betties and martinas. songs and fucking solutions, and an arrow ellipsis. . . (puns) filth, markets, shaving morning. digging holes in the backyard.

and understand all of these: lips, mirrors. putting out all of the effort i could never –

if you start looking closely you will see beneath the bed, the pretties and the uglies, heaven and small hell, existing in the chaos that doesn’t make sense to you. surrounded by the sun. shrugs, my shoulders rise. there are also dictionaries and all of their definitions. play god if you know everything and can make me feel stupid.

forgive me now. i’m hopped up on scary amounts of uppers and maybe i can’t type like a correct person. trust me. i’ve eaten them like they were gummy bears stapled to my tongue.

but i still want to be reminded of you, molly. your chalk paintings, and films. transporting.

fuck me, as i have apparently forgotten how to punctuate, and please forgive me.

can you see our intoxicated stumble and i have eaten so many pills i’ve been here for ten minutes that i feel like vomiting. i want to throw up and i hate throwing up.  it’s down the sidewalk w/riddles and pain and wonderful sex. life. this right here. these are the goddamn seconds that you are sitting here, sean. the free-verse banners. anti-depressants. psycho-babble – threat of lobotomy and freeze-dry. i have my lack of religion and my quest, but isn’t that okay? i began to rely a lot on the words that come with bar-talk and the little notes i scribble down in my notebook. i feel like these have become the secret meetings where we tackle problems behind closed doors that involve families and empathy and and soundtracks that sound like goddamn fucking oldies.

i wish i could explain better to people how i am haunted. how i am super fucking haunted and how there are no jokes and your smiles are the worst thing you could ever show me. how the open entrance to the loss of innocence died sometime when i was a child – smashed. and a fucking dialect and your accents are full of danger. they just speed through streets. they accept hugs. they hear the ghost songs. they have this, like a visual orgasm. there is a disconnection and there goes all the senses and long sleep cuddles and laughter.

my  skin crawls with excitement.

tell me why you cannot feel your feet. or the bubbles.

this is an unconditional love dragged out through all of the hullabaloos and hearts kittens. drawn out explanations of this plan that might not be meant to be understood.

why.

why?

just take a minute to look at all the combinations of colors.

maybe those make sense.

stop goddamn worrying about me.

i’m stuck down in this apartment.

i have plenty of knives and my ‘if i have to’ box.

nobody sees this box.

do you know why?

because it is sacred and scary.

maybe you someday

and i go. i take more uppers so i can keep writing because even i don’t think it’s starting to make sense.

but my eyelids begin to smartly drag and soon i have no idea that i have even lost this fight.

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~ by alltheavenueslookugly on 2014/10/12.

One Response to “me and october 12. 2014”

  1. darling scribbling dreamer,
    for a few hours float away like one of your ghosts. you answer too many questions before I have enough courage to show you all the things I don’t know and now can’t ever ask – before I can complete a thought.
    remember me like this — being quiet, being still, cold like always. my breath is wasted on me here if I am trapped inside my own hands, holding my little fog covered phone so closely, typing and listening for letter echoes. this can’t be a life.
    take care of yourself if you can.
    I never let go and my memory is long and the most terrible way to stay awake. twisting, stretching, wishing for some painted cut up creature to pull my fragile body beneath the bed. to wrap it’s arms around us like bandages, hold me – or at least hold me down until it can stop all my thrashing about. I’d hate to stir up anything else under there. this could go on forever and eventually I might forget sleep. yes, yes, yes, just this once, no – at least twice. push all my air out to make me dizzy, knock me down, spin me on and on, give me enough time to read and scream my favorite part of the story. oh, fuck the rest. what an endless, unwanted night.

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