The reflection of the sun on snow can blind you.

You don't hurt, you just feel sleepy, he whispered. I watched the oil from his fingertips leave prints on the glossy magazine he glanced at, page after page, searching to find himself in the party pages.

That's what it did to you? I mumbled, walking away, shaking my head, my shoulders loose and relaxed like a puppet.

She was like sunshine, or maybe clouds. Fancy free and pretty in the way birds are; feathers gleaming and uncapturable...but ridden with disease and likely to wound with their claws.

"He's always in magazines," she said, eyelashes fluttering, small town Lolita so easily impressed with Big City boys. No, I said. That doesn't mean much here.

But who says, really? A memory captured in publicly distributed print can be something special, can't it? Something...validating? I shrugged my shoulders, tensed and aching.

He kept crawling to me, mumbling about my warmth as he pressed the sides of my body to his lips like a prayer, the oil on his fingertips creating prints on skin already wrought with freckles. I didn't want it. I didn't want him. I need no published loverboys banging down my door, take the sunshine, won't you? Girls with pale skin like mine burn too easily to be that close to someone who thinks they're a STAR.

Mumbled excuses, ignored phone calls, emails written and saved as drafts, never pressing send. Moments spent sweating and nervous in bathroom stalls, endless showers trying to get those fingerprints off of my skin.

She kept asking and calling and breathing in shallow breaths, her lovely face becoming gaunt and rabid in her compulsion for a man she couldn't have and I couldn't get rid of. "Take sunshine," I told him on printed notes, and he would come back with "the sun resides within you, the warmth of your skin tells me so". I hated such admissions. I wanted new books.

Soon enough, seasons changed, my subsciptions to bad magazines with too many ads ended, and I no longer remember fingerprints and a girl I once called sunshine. New wallpaper, coffee pots exchanged for French presses, I learned how to sew and made myself an apron in anticipation of becoming an amateur chef in my own little world. Then an invitation came in the mail, for a wedding. Fingerprints and sunshine.

"I'm pregnant," she said, eyes wide and hair curled luxuriously against her enlarged busom and luminous skin. "It was an accident. But we're doing the right thing, I think. Getting married. Making it legit."

I stared at her, more sunflower than sunshine now; and just as stupid.

He dropped to his knees when he saw me, I could practically feel his fingertips grasping at the fabric of my dress, my belly flat and toned, nothing like the sweetly swollen stomach of his soon to be wife. I ached. She would break herself attempting to get him to love her. He would be like most men in magazines. That needs no explanation.

Mutiny committed against a child not even born yet.

"Would you be the godmother?" she asked me, eyes framed with lashes like a doe. I nodded. The captain of an unmanned ship.

"You keep your fingertips on sunshine or I'll cut them off," I whispered to him as I left. He stayed on his knees.

Xo

But how can I compete

Moisture in the air, bodies writhing in heat
I feel droplets on my skin, feel the burn of my feet
I smell perfume all around, white teeth bared in grins
Absolution, a sweat laced baptism of sins.

You are talking to me, but I can see you don’t care
About what I am saying, with my tits and my hair
And I’m vaguely accepting, since it doesn’t matter much now
We’re all puppets on a stage, pull my strings and I bow.

But what do I say, should I give birth to a daughter?
When she turns into a woman and is led to the slaughter
Of the sins of her beauty turning her into a toy
Something rotten from the simple game of girl meeting boy.

Don’t play the game, you are boring
Play too much, you’re a whore
It seems we’ve all got our pencils, we’re all keeping score

But how can I compete with fake tits and long hair
When I’m trying to speak and it seems nobody cares.

You keep saying I’m special;
Because I’ve read a book?
Are they mutually exclusive? Intelligence and looks?
You want a woman who works
But she can’t have accomplished TOO much;
You want a woman who can please you
But who’s never been touched.
You want someone to look after…
But more someone to look after YOU
You want a lady without being a gentleman, too.

If all that you meet is the pretty and vapid
There’s a chance you’re the same, it’s the law of attraction.

And how can we compete? A baptism in sweat
The bruises on my knees aren’t from sex. I repent.

White marble stared at me, such a soft material (except it could crack your skull)
I trailed my hands down it, whispering
The marks of his chisel breathed.

Fucking romance novel, pages thrown
Lipstick marks on the edges of the pages
Written with a different feeling, one he couldn't identify
The typed words on the paper tried to scream.

You can edit and critique, with the tongues of a vulture
Tell me you're an aesthetic accomplice, personifying the voice of my culture
You're so creative, my lover, you're so fucking creative

A trembling tenor, the moans of a guitar
Heads shaking, eyes rolling
Who determines what is in tune or in style.

Brush strokes on a canvas that breathed in mocking skin
Colors clash and writhe, making love in the dark
It looks like nothing easily identified
I believe it is supposed to be interpreted.

You can write off and cancel, pull the plugs to their hearts
Say you're the voice of popular opinion, you're versed in literature and art
You're so creative, my lover, you're so fucking creative

I am waiting.

You lie to me frequently

Calling me, catching me

Watching me walking down streets with no end.

You talk to me quietly

When I want to

Ignore you

But you never let me, you grab hold of my hand.

I can’t bite through your skin, can’t break from your embrace

And my nightmares are littered by the profile of your face

It hurts me you exist

It upsets me you breathe

Such a worthless sack of skin who refuses to leave…

I might have loved you once

But I made a mistake

And you’re been replaced, as has always been my way.

Find yourself a new doll

Preferably one who is a faux blonde

Because the cheaper the woman,

The stronger the bond.

And maybe once you’re entangled, you can leave me alone

And I won’t be haunted by blue eyes and the ringing of my phone.

I watched you from the corner of my eye
Hands with long fingers, ropes of veins down the arms
Tucked into a peacoat, buttoned, with eyes behind spectacles
I remember.
I remember sometimes with my lips on your skin and your hands in my hair and my legs around your waist
And my heartbeat goes so fast sometimes it feels like I'm going to
Going to
Run out of breath...
I watch you now, and the way you walk and how you talk about children
It makes me ache in the most appropriate of ways.
I listen, and wait...
Wait for the feel of your palms over the curves of my hips
The feel of your tongue running trails in between my lips
The way your eyelashes curl around the edge of your lids, while I toy with your glasses and am suprised I still feel
Because I wanted it simple
Something dirty and fast
But you're not a disposable boy
You're something that will last
Much like diamonds or gold, or the sediment that I run through my hands
My palms hold your heart, the way they write letters in this sand.
I'll put it in a box
Put it under my bed
Make sure its never hurt
Make sure you're never sad
Because you're part of me, like the clouds or the air
You are in every breath, every strand of my hair.
Every person I see has your memory imbued
Every raindrop and ocean, if it exists, it is you.
I watched you from the corner of my eye
Your hands leave trails in pink over my skin
I see your coat in the closet and I remember...
My hands ache for you
My lips whisper your name
I can't breath when you're away
Perhaps you feel the same
I watch your smile and your laugh, the way you've taken care of me
There are other lovers lurking, but the blind will never see.
I remember your laugh when we first met, and the way I told you to stay with me
All night
And that night has turned into this...
You're the words on my papers and the prints of my fingertips
Don't forget.

What a pair, disaster dolls
Tits and lipstick, texts and calls
Hedonistic champagne groupies
Coke and vodka, rum and roofies
Penthouse lofts
Girls on film
Glass tables cut my knees and shins
Hands clasped together, best friends forever
Disaster dolls in silk and leather
Who needs it, right? Who needs to think?
When you can eradicate issues with just one drink
Or maybe two
And some pills in a bottle
"Its from a DOCTOR
And my friend's a MODEL"
I love lipstick smeared on veneered white teeth
And numbed gums laughing, refilled drinks
Disaster dolls are my favorite girls
Like broken diamonds, or dirty pearls...

<3

Four chimes on a clock of a printer's design
I once wanted just letters, now all I want is the time.
Time ticking away on a bed lined in gold
Like the coins I obtained for the soul that I sold.
She looked cheap
Like she smelled
All imposter and hairspray
She tried hard to remind you
She was smart in the right ways
But intellect isn't something you can learn from a book
And you can't stop being cheap regardless of your designer looks.
Four hours away from graduation day
Put a cap on my wallet for the penance I paid.
I watched the sun as it set, watched it glitter and fade
In the same manner as the Faustian deal we made.
She looked silly
Like her laugh
On the sand, wind in hair
I chased after her then, for that was when I once cared
When we were interchangable people
Twins in stardust and gold
Now my mirror reflects nothing
And the wind has grown cold.
Four seconds from impact, steel on steel
I would trade back this soul for just one thing to be real.
The page is on four
The fourth hour has come
I am watching the clocks while she watches the sun
It is a matter of time, interchangable lovers
I used to think we were the same...now I know there are others.
Four leaves on the wind
Four kisses on my lips
Four hands on her hips, four ends to four tips
Flower petals will bloom
My orchids need the heat
I sense restlessness brewing
"I heard that you called me cheap..."

Four chimes.

Driving down 6th Street
Downtown LA
Filth everywhere but the scent of flowers on the air;
Driving to a date with someone smarter and better looking and richer than you; but I'm thinking about you (I'm talking to you as I'm typing although you can't read this)
And thinking about you makes me angry, vaguely;
As I know for a fact it's the wrong reaction to the wrong thing.
I was thinking about this new person; wondering how his hands would feel in my hair and between my thighs (shapely and perfect) except you kept creeping back in and even after I left later that night, with the taste of his lips on my skin and his cologne on my clothing that creeping, sinking, salty sensation came back to remind me I'm Still In Love With You and it's been long enough where I shouldn't be (three months, give or take)
And I became vaguely angry, again.
Begging and begging and begging me
To love you
And I wouldn't, until I did
Because the color of your eyes was like the ocean
And your lips were always pursed and plumped; hair like asphalt (black) and the scent of your skin (blood oranges and musk)
And then you decided I was too mean to you, you were tired, you didn't want to keep going ON like this
(And I believed it)
Until, months later after you left and came back and left and came back and I said "leave me alone?" and you said no and the ? became a . became a !
But you're still here...
Except what I want from you now is something you'll never be able to deliver, and like the twins we are; even if you could I probably wouldn't want it anymore.
I miss those minty marshmallows you liked.
And I keep feeling like something needs to happen; either you leave me alone (once and for all) or I grow up and learn to ignore you (once and for all) or we get back together (no once and for all for this one) or we...just...
6th Street
Downtown LA
Filth everywhere but the scent of you on me;
So many months ago but still fresh in my memory...
I've got to learn to let you fall.
Teardrops from the vitreous humor in my eyes
(Just not tonight...)
xo

Rain comes; drips and drops that patter on your hair and skin like tiny prayers meant to cleanse you. Sometimes rain makes you feel clean, but usually all you feel is cold.

I’m so sorry I loved you, so angry I betrayed myself and let any of my doors open to your prying eyes and fingers. I’m forgetting the feel of your lips on my skin but that doesn’t mean anything. “I’ll replace him,” she whispered…

I collect feathers left on the ground, only feathers on concrete because in the dirt they look content. On concrete they look cold, and foreign. I pick them up and dust them off, sometimes touch them to my lips although birds are dirty creatures and oft not to be trusted. But I like their feathers, it’s like finding a fur coat on the ground in Beverly Hills, all images of a naked Helmut Newton model running around smearing her red lipstick.

She was good to me, allowing my head to fall on her shoulder and my arms to encircle her waist for support. I looked straight ahead, imagining cotton candy and cloud puffs and secondary illusions all women think of when the light inside has been temporarily extinguished for whatever reason. She tinkered with the key I wore around my neck. “Did he buy this for you?” I nodded. She ripped it off and threw it while we walked.

I always wondered what the person who found that key thought it was for.

His hair was black…not jet black in the unnatural fashion of boys with too much confidence and pants too tight, no…naturally black. In the sun, his hair would glint with a coffee tone, and he smelled like musk and oranges. I smelled like musk and lilies. In the evenings, when our skin pressed together, I imagined it was what paradise smelled like. “I love you…”

I can’t write, I whispered. I can’t write.

Broken fingers and a crippled mind, lips bitten and passive-aggressive glances in the direction of YOU always YOU, I’m the star, you never will be…he screamed accusations silently at me with his eyes, jealous of the admirers he imagined and desperate for attention of his own. What man competes with a woman? Who competes at all? I berated him silently back, wanting lips on mine and hand holding on Sundays but sensing that hatred was replacing the love between us. Truth be told, we are twins in many ways, and his jealously matched my own although our talents and beauty are comparable.

“I…don’t…love…you…”

Words never spoken but proven time and time again. Rain can make you feel clean, but often just cold. She licked the droplets off my lips and tied ribbons around my wrists.

“Do you know what I want?” she whispered. I looked at her, imploringly.

“Love.”

Isn’t that what we all want?

We ended up smoking cigarettes all night and watching the rain play the piano on windows, tying and untying our ribbons, hers red, mine pink…

If I let you love me, will it hurt?

Everything hurts, in the end. Pain is relative and words are interchangable.

I want something…different.

With the sort of lingering apathy afforded to all women, I catalogued my lovers and with my fingertips and memories they arose from the dead, like Lazarus from his tomb. Are breaths and the oily traces left from fingerprints enough to imprint the ether with something secondary, something left to chance or worse...fate? Pushing aside the velvet curtain of memory, the fog crept in on que, stage left.

Oh, but with observations come responsibility, the type left to those with deft fingers on keys that scream names. Quiet the whispers in my head that lead to footprints on guardrails and cleanup crews on freeway underpasses. "I just wanted something better," she breathed to me, with my hands on her head like a preacher about to baptize.

The genie's lamp of originality passed me on the wishes it bestowed, and nothing by banality filled my mind for most of my life. You think you're a thinker until you realize your thoughts are cloud puffs, simple wisps in the dream of a life you can't see through the curtain. Yes, you're special all right. If special means one of many.

I want you to run, faster than you ever have before, to the horizon, jumping off of balconies and screaming the name of your fathers loud enough to turn corpses in their graves. Live for something in the wake of this impending doom and cry to battle, wars fought for nothing more than pieces of paper we assign value to and let lead us into death. What is your currency in the land of Hades, the river Styx your guide for the price of a tale perhaps, or a song. Orpheus and Eurydice would never live in this generation, after her death he simply would have gone online to find a replacement and the Furies would go to sleep hungry.

Kiss me with something that says that I am more than just a whim for the moment, kiss me to tell me you are something, too? I keep dipping my hands in your pools for an answer but they are shallow and with that, bear no secrets. If this is so fleeting keep your lips off of my skin and find solace in your discardance like the rest of the names in my book.

What is life but fodder for the literate. Feed the moon her daily bread and be awarded with dreams. "You don't need wings to fly..." she whispered. I baptized her in the shadows of the moon and my heartbeat as her name etched itself in my soul. Run to the horizon...

I need a recorder in my head, my monologues come out so much better when I can hear my inner voice instead of the clacking of computer keys...

I like to put "e"s in words, like keyes and olde which makes no sense but alludes to my theory I was born in the wrong time. I don't know if I believe in reincarnation...

Carnation Instant Breakfast in strawberry; I always get strawberry in everything, it makes me feel girly. I don't typically feel girly, I feel earthy; womanly. Sometimes feeling lighthearted and girly is good for the soul; putting on too much makeup and going out with your friends, and sleeping with a stuffed animal and getting everything in strawberry even though you know chocolate is probably better.

How do you see me, I wonder; from a looking glass just out of reach. I must look sad, desperate; pining for a love that never delivers and selling my soul to the devil. Emotional exploitation delivered to me from me. And I wonder...who are you?

Are you the one that hurt me? One who knows me? Someone lonely, someone horny, someone sad and slightly tired maybe someone who likes pancakes the same way I do...

Maybe we're all writers and poets and dancers and actors and photographers...artists...singers and flute players...

To speak, listen. To answer, ask. To want, be prepared to receive.

These lines in my palms breathe your name and my own in the same(exhale...)

Yes, I am back for another (put that whip down, in haste)
For just a little of you is not enough for my taste
I keep emotionally stunting, and that isn't really my style
I've got my hands around your throat, and to spite me you SMILE.

Remember those words? TRUE LOVE with a trademark sign
I bet you don't remember that letter, those words wrapped up in rhymes
I could say something mean, could say something to hurt
But what is the point of that, darling...I can't gage how much you are worth.

I can't elaborate on how it feels to be in love with a fraud
There's no handbook for me, silly redheaded broad
I'd kick in your teeth if I could, to punish you for this pain
But at the end of the day, I only have myself to blame.

I know what I'm doing, but I can't find the time
To get over this feeling while I re-read your lines
Give me heartbeats and scars, I'm trying to be vague
While I bend knees and beg because I'm still sadly your slave.

But I know...

If I turn around quickly, I could swear you were just there
Because the smell of your skin is the ghost in my hair.
While my vertebrae pop under the hands of another
I mourn the loss of a man I thought could be my last lover.
But times change as I did; we're not suited for the moment
(Be careful with my heart", I said, "Don't drop it, just hold it")
You clung on to my coattails while I pushed you away
Wanting you always but not having the courage to say...
So I lost you again, this must be the last time
Hour hands on the three, three hours, three chimes
I keep looking for your smile, in the crowds of Downtown
I see men, but not you; photographs of a clown
But it's never you that I see, it's never you that is there
It's just the ghost of your skin in the strands of my hair.

I have something like an exhale on a cold day
Fleeting in the moment but you knew it was warm
I want something longer, I want something that lasts
I look down to see the lines in the palm of my hands.

Spoken words say I love you, but your written words hurt
Long songs with a chorus uncompleted, like wisps on water that bleed away
Push me and pull me, like a kite in the wind
Love letters I've written and with my eyes, try to send.

Do this: I do it
Say this: it is said
"Validate the dreams that manifest in my head"
I kiss the soles of your feet and the bruises on your skin
But it's not good enough for you, such is the curse of all men.

I want a love song, with words tender and true
But all you give me is the wails of a guitar, and the blues...

From Jezebel:

"Good news for romantics: scientists claim that true love does, in fact, exist. A study of brain scans showed that certain couples can maintain their early sparks of romance and excitement over 20 years.

According to John Harlow and Brendan Montague of the Times Online, scientists studied the brain scans of couples who had been together for 20 years vs. couples who had recently fallen in love and found that "one in 10 of the mature couples exhibited the same chemical reactions when shown photographs of their loved ones as people commonly do in the early stages of a relationship." These couples were dubbed "swans" by the scientists, because they showed the same type of "mate for life" mentality as such animals as swans, foxes and, if Phoebe Buffay is to be believed, lobsters."

So I said-foxes mate for life?! That's not just a Born Ruffians song? I need to be paying more attention to nature programs.

From the aptly titled The Fox Website:


"For a long time, foxes were generally thought to be monogamous - a male pairs with a female fox and the pair stay together for life. There are many reasons why researchers came to this conclusion.

First, by observing foxes it was seen that the area over which a male fox roams, and which he defends against other foxes (his territory), largely overlaps the area occupied by the female. During the mating season, the pair are often seen together because the male follows the female closely. Also, once the female has given birth to the cubs, she spends the majority of her time in the den nursing them. During this period the male can be observed making frequent trips to and from the den to provision his mate. He then does the same to provision the cubs once they start eating solid food at about four weeks of age.

Other evidence, however, suggests that fox mating behaviour is not so straight forward. For example, during the mating season, female foxes are sometimes seen surrounded by several male foxes. Also, some studies have shown that, during the mating period, male foxes leave their home territories - and therefore their mate - and wander in search of other females. Also, in both Europe and North America, communal dens have been recorded where two or more litters of cubs are raised together."

So maybe foxes SORT of mate for life. I guess that explains me and you know whooooo then. <3 Swoon. I still have bruises on my knees and his lip prints on my back.

The break in the clouds makes me believe there is a god
Because who else could create such beauty?
It's the same feeling I have when you're in between my legs
And when I look in your eyes.
Just like candy; sticky sweet.

The break in the clouds shows the sun shining through
The same way your ego cracks show me who you really are.
I want to wrap you up in tissue paper, gossamer webs around your delicate skin
Keep you safe from the world and the enemy within.
All I really want is you to love yourself.

I can't keep loving you this way, it's not healthy for me
You're such a beautiful boy, such a delicacy
I would keep your heart in my own if I thought that would work
But you've got to life for yourself, on your own.

I'll keep biding my time
Keep you hidden in memory
With your lips on my skin
And bruises on my knees
I'll get my kicks with the rest
As you continue to grow
But promise me you'll come back?
The sun promised it would show...

Through the breaks in the clouds

(There is a god behind your eyes)

Bittersweet, like a cranberry on my tongue
I say goodbye to you but you're still next to me, walking with me
A little bit like a Vonnegut novel, your narrative playing over and over in my head.

He lays on a hospital bed in a hospital room
In a hospital gown with an IV in his arm
I look at him and feel my skin crawl
Maybe I do love my father, after all.

He brushes the hair away from my neck and lays his lips against me, softly
I feel my skin goosebump, just like it did in the hospital room...
Curtains drawn and quartered hearts in jars.

"You're not going to die, Dad," I say, knees on the cold floor scuffed by nurses shoes with fat soles and doctor's over-shined designer shoes
He looks at me with eyes ready to go.
But I'm not ready...I'm not ready.

His skin looks like apples, pale and plump, cheeks flushed in the cold wind;
I want to keep him with me, but I say goodbye.
Although he is still following me; walking with me in the amber of the moment like he quoted.

Years later my father told me when the nurses were wheeling him away from his room to his final surgery, he tried to tell them to just throw his body away after he died. "Just throw me away; I don't need to be buried...I'm not important enough to bury." My eyes welled up at the admission and my heart burned. "You thought no one would mourn you?"

He looked at me with puppy dog eyes, wet and wanting

My father looked at me with defeated eyes, wet and wanting

"Who would mourn me? What good have I done for any of you?"

That broke the string that kept my composure together and I felt a tear slide down my face

(a tear slides down his face as I leave him, leave him standing as he freezes then follows, in the Chicago wind)

His eyes glistened in the light of the fire

"But I'm still alive now, that's what important?"

I couldn't bring

I couldn't bring myself

I couldn't bring myself to tell him I loved him...

Haunted by ghosts and the remainders that follow...

Ok, what did I say?
I said leave me alone.
But your number is here,
On my cellular phone.
I'm going to tell you this now: you are fucking insane
And I'm going to join you if you won't go away.

I'm going to tell you this once, then I want you to leave
Get your sweaty hands off of my skin and my sleeves
I keep paying penance to you, but I don't owe you shit
And I'm quit tired of trying to appease you on my knees with my lips.

I'm going to say this right here, whether you read it or not
I am tired of what we have and I want it to stop
You're playing games with my conscious, because I'm trying to show
That I've grown up since "we" existed, but what do I care if you know?

Relationships break
I don't need to justify who I am
To a person who is more of a boy than a man
If I see you around
I'll give a smile and a wave
Until then, fuck off-find yourself another girl to save.

You liked me when I was broken, although you say the opposite
But I can see it in your eyes, I hear it in your bullshit
"I wish I could change like you did," yes, but you won't because you're lame
You're much more content texting me "<3"s and playing 4th grade mind games.

I was sitting here, waiting
Waiting for you to come back
And you did, in your way, movie dates, fade to black
But we can't have a conversation
Without you making me mad
Because you only want to talk about "you", and I'm past needing to brag.

Where is my romance, my wine! My conversations about science!
Where are the late nights, the eye gazing? I'm stuck in the past tense
Of our old days, which are gone, except in my memory
I'd prefer to keep you there, before you ruin it for me.

How is this for my sins? I'm sorry I hurt you. Sorry I made you jealous and said things too cruel for your skin. Sorry I did what I did and said what I said...and with my final apology, I will put this to bed.

I can't make you love me...

Little <3s are for girls. You should find one.

Probably out finding a replacement for me

I take 15 steps and turn with this revolver
I don't remember, she says (but then why do you bother?)
I'll say the things that you won't, I'll be the brave one this time
Out finding a girl for your needs, but her hands are not mine.

(With those eyes and those lips)

Paces and faces, the hangman's last noose
I'm tired of this job, he says (wake up and look)
I took my pictures of you, put the rope around your wrists
I can just see it now, sell your soul for one kiss.

You want pictures and fame, shiny souls left for sale
I want quiet and paper, want to say your name in exhales
Of my legs around your back (work harder, he says)
I wonder who's face is connected to your new girlfriend's legs.

Probably out finding a replacement of me

While I...write of you...