closing time

It’s funny.

It’s funny how I feel empowered after a few drinks.

everything is funny after a few drinks.

I’m yearning for everything that has legs and a pulse.

I want my heart to swallow my face, remind me that we are temporary.

this life needs to pull my hair, drip its perspiration on my brow.

Remind me that life is meant to be lived if only because it will one day leave.

what I am, is what you are.

mirrors.

what you hate, I love.

The things you see, I do not.

But that’s ok, I am only here temporarily.

burn that midnight oil with me?

remind me that it’s not the destination but the journey. read me passages from books you love, and sing your favorite lyrics to me…badly

I will love every inch of your ugly, make it pretty, taste the ugly, make it froth, make it dream.

i’m drunk and all I want is another drink.

all i want is you, next to me.

important and ugly

oh you know…

beauty is a term that means a million things to a million people.

there are fetishists and perverts who idolize it.

artists, models, actors and actresses, poets, musicians, the homeless, the disabled, people in comas, people with too much money, gorgeous flawless people, scarred and scared people who wish they were something other than what they are.

blind, burnt, hollow. full. fat. skinny. big ass. small tits. big heart. small brain. little feet. big hands.

beauty is equivalent to cards dealt drunkenly.

it is equivalent to a slot machine at 2 a.m..

a lottery ticket, half-scratched.

 

sorry.

i’m sorry.

I’M SORRY.

 

it’s all bullshit.

it means nothing.

…but I still often wish I were beautiful

the kind of beautiful that makes people weep.

the kind that makes people listen to whatever the fuck you have to say.

instead, I am loud.

chiming lungs, horn mouth, an orchestra in my laugh.

you’ll hear me coming miles away.

you’ll feel me coming.

you’ll hear me coming

i’m coming.

 

 

i’m here.

 

your lips, my lips— apocalypse

the universe is funny.

it feeds you things, then it finds new things, better things to feed you. then you get greedy, and you want more. so you eat more, and you realize that the first good thing you ate, wasn’t nearly as good as the second thing you ate, so now you’re bored and all you want is a nap and your pussy licked, and the feeling of love that swims inside you has turned from a small lake into a tsunami in a matter of days and all you can do is laugh and lose sleep and pretend that the apocalypse won’t happen but as soon as you do, you close your eyes and sleep and dream about the apocalypse happening, and it’s like any other day in this dream. you’re wearing black, you’re wearing your boots, your iPhone is in your hands, you’re at a stop light and you’re texting the love of your life, and somehow the connection is lost and you look up and the world is black.

people are running and crying and all you can do is think how far away the love of your life is. he is so far away. will I ever find him? will this big world turn small for the sake of love? will our strings find each other? will he smell me through the crowd?

will he remember my face?

will he remember my face?

will he remember my face?

will I remember his?

Will we recognize the love, or our faces first?

will he kiss me? fuck me? hold me?

what will the end of the world wake up in us?

will he cut open his hand and feed me?

will he drink heavy of me when I open my legs?

will we become clouds? rain? snow?

will we erupt with our longing?

will he impregnate me with his love?

will I taste him in my mouth while he’s fucking me from behind?

will we be insatiable beasts and remind each other how hungry we are?

will he whisper I love you soft enough to carry, for me and me alone?

will we find each other?

will he recognize my face?

will he recognize my pain?

will he recognize himself, in me?

 

quitting smoking has been HELL.

I went to see Burlesque last night with a bunch of goths and let me tell you, it was beautiful and horrible and Los Angeles is quite a city.

I “networked” which was foreign and tasty and strange and exciting.

Cigarettes.

My lovers.

My mistress.

I miss you.

I’m gonna start a Russian novel in hopes to keep me busy.

It’ll work.

Plus, the title of the book has my middle name, which is awkward but comforting.

The Master and Margarita. 

 

I’m high.

 

I haven’t been high in a while and this feeling is euphoric. I must capture it.

 

Loud traffic kinda takes ideas out of my head as I’m thinking them. But new ones fill the void.

I need to pee.

I make too many plans.

I’m too everything.

I am nothing.

Life is short and makes no sense and my fingers are numb.

 

Meanwhile, children are being taken away from their families, and I’m detoxing from cigarettes.

 

There is something terribly wrong in this world.

conversation with my imaginary lover circa 2013

Oh god, you were like a roller coaster, and I hate roller coasters.

I peed myself on one once, and they all laughed at me and I smiled.

It was warm and the day was cold and I never bothered changing, cause shit like that don’t matter.
I’ve always loved peeing.

I love holding it in and waiting, waiting, waiting.
Sometimes I almost forget how to speak or how to type on a keyboard cause my mind is concentrating on how to keep my legs closed tight enough to not squirt out that liquid honey.
I wasn’t always like this.
Nah, I’m lying.

I’ve always been like this.
It’s all the critical minds that made me feel dirty about it.

I mean, how do you tell your man to pee on you? There’s a steady cadence to such things.

That is not an invitation to do it whenever either.

Mostly, I pee in the shower.

Preferably in the winter, but anytime will do.

I like it aimed at the small of my back & down my ass, plunging through the crevices of my legs casting its last shadow on my feet. The shudder of my lover follows. Me,  with wet hair and cushy lips anticipating his airplane mouth rummaging through the cascade of my open mountain tongue.
He’s poetry.
He’s every wanderlust tendency I’ve ever thought of.
Every pair of boot I’ve ever used and every Wagner composition.

He’s my most precious childhood fantasy, and I’m every nectarine he’s ever bitten down on.
It’s nice.
Usually, we ask each other tired questions after devastatingly personal events.
Like him choking and slapping me while he rams his cock inside me one minute merits him asking me when I first tasted a mango.
How old were you when you realized you’d die?
How many times have you been in love?
What’s your favorite crayon?

Why does death make you angry?
When did you fall in love with me?
Don’t die.
Your flesh is so hot and pliant, I couldn’t fathom it being cold and hard.
Don’t die.
I love you.
Don’t die.

 

900 soldiers

He’s like 5 feet tall, my father. Funny how he used to look like a giant to me. At four years old, he was my best friend. When he could, he’d take me swimming and buy me clothes while he did his rounds as a bus driver on them dirt roads, from Santa Ana to Sonsonate.

He’d let me dress him up and put make-up on him, and if he wasn’t paying attention I’d pierce his ear with one of mom’s gold earrings.

Most of his history is a mystery to me, as he’s quite the reserved man when he ain’t dancing.

My father’s father wasn’t a very kind man; typical of his generation, harshly brazened, womanizer and thief.

He made my father go to school barefoot and shredded him with whips for his kid mistakes. So of course, as a grown man, my father became obsessed with shoes. He’s a size 8 ½, his foot is wide.

So when this man next to me asks what my father would like for Christmas, it’s shoes. It’s always shoes.

So we buy cheap wrapping paper, and for the first time ever I decide to wrap their presents instead of handing it to them in the bag they came in. We get him comfy slippers from Target cause he’s older now and all he wears nowadays are comfy things. But he looks less than pleased, his closet is full of expensive boots, tennis shoes, slippers, and penny loafers. But he puts them on and realizes that, this might not be so bad after all.

I can hear his old feet dragging on the cold floor while I’m watching Saturday Night Fever. He sits next to me and smiles at Tony on the television, in his youth he was Tony. Danced like Tony. Dressed like Tony, and had odd jobs like Tony.

“I worked at a shoe store, where the owner trusted me with his shoe shop and sent me on long road trips to some of his richer clients. I’d always say yes to a job, no matter how tired I was or what plans I had that night. I always said yes to a job. So because I had showed to be a hard worker, he sent me off to one of the hardest jobs I’ve had. He told me to go to a military station on some remote part of the mountains and measure the feet of 900 soldiers. And I did. I measured all of their feet and brought back the results, and made charts of how many of each size, and went back to deliver them when they came. I always said yes to a job. Always.”

sadness circa 2014

I mostly want to die.
I love you more than anything but dying feels more comforting cause then I won’t have to get up in the morning.
I can’t blame my past or my misuse; it’s genetic and feels deeper than blood.
I wish I were docile, I think I’d enjoy me more.
It’s ok.
I’m yelling for attention it feels like.
I wish I looked like something you’d stare at in the street.
Desperate cunt.
No tact.
No self-respect.
I’m sorry.
I want to cut my gut open and feel something.
Instead…
I’ll just keep typing away at this keyboard, and driving my old car, and shopping at grocery stores in hopes that something or someone will say a kind word and let the day be ok for a couple of hours.
I want to be desired by everyone and reject them one by one.
I want to eat till I throw up.
I want to sleep till I’m paralyzed.
I want money, tons of it, and I want to spend it on charities and fine chocolates.
My nature isn’t delicacy, its durability. I wasn’t built for leisure, I was built for burning.
I like dreaming of old friends and forgetting all the betrayal, and frolicking like old times down familiar streets but with our new- old faces and all those cigarettes.
I don’t like people. Most of us feel this way, don’t try and deny it, you know it’s true. But, imagine this, can I be a good person, a loyal and kind person, even if I hate people?

I suppose to the untrained eye I might sound (look?) like I have my shit straight, but my psychologist dubbed me as BPD with PTSD and I LMAO.

I have a chart out there, in multiple hospitals, with more information than I ever cared to give.
I spend most days indoors and practice at making my body strong and my mind stable. Or the other way around.

I don’t want pity or love or understanding. I just want to be able to be how I want to be minute to minute. I want to fill my proverbial tool box with control mechanisms.
I just want to feel less, and talk less, and cry less. I just want to stop watching such sad movies.