miss. miss.

i used to be creative, you know?
always churning ideas in my head, seeing colors and images and concepts laid out.
i don't have shit now.
i feel like a hollowed out .... what?
i should just uninstall photoshop and smash my camera.
i am not worthy of creative instruments.

then again, i'm just fuckin' delirious today.
incoherent thoughts and gray static suffocating my head.

lyrics of martyrs and saints, steeples and prayers.
confess.
confess, confess yourself to me.

like surgery, correcting me.

will it always be this way?
reaching for your hand, burying my face into the crook of your neck,
exposed flesh longing for your kisses.
we sit facing each other. i steal glances at the glowing numbers, hoping
that time will stop moving, if only for tonight.
i listen to the steady stream of words, watch the shadows dance across your face,
smile at the way your eyes close every time you relay some sort of realization,
about us, about me, about yourself.
will it always be this way?
it has to be.
i won't want to live without it. . .
without you.
sometimes it's still too much to handle.
how we came to be this way.
how our lives collided with one another.


..............................................................................

him. [past]
a predator amongst insignificant prey.
moving through the darkness, "you're as slick as your words,"
he bends and twists and manipulates.
to his own bidding.
he keeps the world locked up in a glass box,
safely stowed away.
it's his world.
shady deals in slum villages,
beretta tucked in his waistband, as his right hand roams across
the sleek black handle,
he coaxes his next victim.
it was all a game to him.

her. [past+present]
she takes notice of the world, the mindless drones surrounding her.
suffocating boredom, as she searches for inspiration.
lurking in and out of corners, hoping to never be seen.
she wants to remain hidden in her own world.
she clutches at her thin black book, pages tattered and torn.
pages filled with memories, and fantasies, stories and hymns.
she stumbles through her days blindly.
hoping, waiting to be found.
black ink pen knotted in her thick black hair, as her right hand
reaches up to release it from the tangles,
coaxing her next words out from within her darkened soul.
it's never been a game to her.


he sees her for who she is.
and she still can't find the right words to describe him.
when he asks her do you love me?
and she nods.
and he asks her how much do you love me?
she wants to reply, "more than anything in the world."
but the words always get stuck.
she doesn't want to hide from him anymore,
she wants him to discover all of her.
mystery is no longer important in this relationship.
this relationship.
built on strength, love, vulnerability, hope, faith,
dedication,
everything she had ever dreamed of.
he is everything she had ever longed for.

temper, temper

'and so i bottled it up and kept the words to myself'

................................................................


eyes open.
no sun today.
the minutes pass. sluggish.
mouth dry.
nicotine beckoning lips to orange filter.
muscle spasms, pressing footsteps to my ears.
eyeliner smearing, creating deeper black and blue pouches of skin.
skin kneaded like dough, pinching and pulling.
i want it off.
orange filter to chapped lips, swift strong pulls.
exhale, smoke stagnant in the air.
hard, fast, cold streaming water.
chattering teeth.
throat clenches, chains tightening around my stomach,
convulsions, why can't i breathe?
i force it out.
desperate need for air.
my head rolls back, straighten up.
tears in the mirror, red veins in a sea of white.
let the morning come.


i order breakfast, exchange pleasantries with joyce, it's the same as every morning.
i make my sugar with coffee, and sit at the table closest to the window.
pretty delicate phalaenopsis suffering and dead, root rot of course.
he walks in, he's been wearing the same outfit since i was 15.
he chooses the table next to me, the legs are uneven, he takes notice.
and commences with his obsessive compulsiveness,
turn, shift, turn, shift, seasaw, turn, shift, seasaw.
it won't stick old man, it won't.
"son of a bitch"
he mutters under his breath, i hear him.
turn, shift, seasaw.
keep going, the table will thank you later.
he settles for the moment, rummages through his goodie bag.
five plastic bottles, one by one placed on the table.
size order, please.
i only see the name of one bottle from where i'm sitting.
OSTEO-FLEX, the biggest of the five.
he makes me nervous, so i stand and walk to another table,
the door jingles open, and my parents walk in.
"hello darling," my mother says aloud.
it's family breakfast time.
i feel comfortable.
the day drags on.
and it's still dragging.
11.25 AM envy on the coast; lapse.
mozilla firefox, zune, adobe photoshop CS.
I WANT MY BED.

black&white.

the tears stayed back for as long as i could keep them.
i hate talking.
i hate talking, because it makes my insides shake.
no one's ever pleaded with me to speak, like you did.
it always ended in frustration,
meaningless words escaping my tongue with a hiss.
i hate talking.
i hate talking, it's so difficult to look you in your bright eyes,
and tell you what i'm thinking at that exact moment.
i didn't start crying until you wanted me to start talking.
hearing my own thoughts come from within me, hearing them floating
in midair; i can't even describe the feeling.
it's like glass shattering, something fragile and delicate,
destruction.
and you stepped out of the car.
and the torrent came rushing out.
a flood cascading down into my lap.
chest heaving. vocal chords tightening.
heart racing. i couldn't hear anything.
except for the quick short gasps clawing at my throat.

oh, how i hate and love emotion.

you break me each time.
but you're there to catch me.

when it's you & i, i see nothing else.
our faces but 3 inches from each other,
your breath tickling my neck.
side by side, the waves came crashing.
'if we go any closer, we'll be in the water.'
and the words, and words, and words.
i'd never seen you so vulnerable.
everything laid out before me.
and you gave me your words.
sweet, precious, honest-to-god words.
we were meant to have each day we have ever shared together.

oh, heart.

PRIMITIVE ART
JUST IMAGINE
PICASSO
RAISED BY WOLVES.

oh, i love it.
it makes my nerves shake.
<3

she's got an army of saints ...

i've been thinking.
and thinking.
i don't feel pain. i don't feel devastation.
i did not cry.
the tears will come though. sooner, than later.
for the most part, i know myself.
i don't know her.
her, being the woman i am capable of becoming.
am steps away of turning into.
i don't want to be her.
i loathe her and tremble when i think of her.
i cannot be her.
i will not be her.

love cannot be split in two. love must remain as a whole.
i know what it is to be in love with two men at once.
maybe then, they weren't men, but they have turned into men.
one proving to be more significant than the other in my life,
playing the part assigned to him.
the other, part of my past, memories created, lost and forgotten,
memories stowed away to be pulled out one by one when called upon.

i cannot do this to myself.
it is me, not you.
it is you, not me.
the argument will never waiver.
but my emotions will, they always have.
i cannot spend countless nights tossing and turning because
of the raging battle within my ...
heart vs. mind, right?
and you tell me to always listen to my heart.
i have not learned how.
perhaps i never will.
perhaps it is neither my heart nor my mind,
my emotions dominate both.
i am rash, and irrational, blinded
by the fury of my emotions.

i cannot do this to myself.
again.
i will only continue to build walls,
around my heart, around my mind,
no one will ever see me.
for who i once was-
loving, caring, open, carefree.
i will turn into more of her-
cold, bitter, cynical, expressionless.
i feel it in my bones.
i lose more and more of myself each time
i love and i let go. forced to let go.
you tell me that i always do what i want,
and when i don't get what i want i become angry,
and say hurtful things.
tell me, does that apply to this situation?

stories. stories. stories. give me your words.

i have to write and write and write.
everyday.

desensitized emotions.
colors dull and faded.

'this is mine'
grabs my face.
'these are mine'
grabs my tits.
'and that's mine'
grabs my ass.
'you'll never belong to anyone else except me, don't forget that.
no one will ever keep your blackened heart in a wrought iron cage like i do.
don't forget that.'

i don't want to be locked up anymore.

we laid under the covers with the lights off.
it was his last night with me.
all i could hear were the crickets outside of his window.
our bodies stayed apart from each other, i was shivering underneath the blankets.
my mind drifted off to a place where physical contact was accepted.
my eyes opened when i felt him change position.
i shifted my head slightly to get a better view of him.
curved muscles, long arms, soft skin.
i could see the line running from his neck to his shoulder blades, in between and around and back up again.
i wanted to touch that line, trace it with the tip of my index finger, feel his muscles twitch under the pressure.
i wanted to see his lips quiver and his eyelids flutter, body tensing.
i left my hand where it was, resting on top of my stomach.
i chased the tears away, i didn't want my eyes to be bloody mary red in the morning.


and this is why, no matter who i fall in love with or become involved with, there will be an underlying suspicion. i trust too easily, but i will never trust fully.
i'm always disappointed by the ones i keep the closest.
they think i won't find out, i always have my ways.
i always find out in the end.
and i guess it's not really lying if you don't tell me at all.
i can only blame myself for being treated this way.
maybe when he apologizes to me with that sincere tone of his, he's apologizing for everything he's done- past present and future.
i cannot absolve you, i cannot save you, i cannot be your refuge.
seek it elsewhere.
in a place with beautiful stained glass windows, 80 feet arches, crimson oak pews, bibles in the pockets, devoted women in hooded gowns.
seek it there.
i am not your savior.


you feed me sweet gentle words, twist my locks of hair around your fingers, caress my made up face, watch my eyes close at the touch of your hand.
how did i ever think i could go through with all of this?
it's not worth it.
not again.


you meant every word you ever gave to me.
you love me, you love me, you love me.
are you sure that you love me?
are you thinking about me when you've got her sprawled out on top of plush covers, as you wrench her legs open and force your way inside of her, and she's there waiting for you to make her scream and moan your name, let her desperate pleas fill your ears. or do you turn her over on her stomach so you don't have to see her face, you close your eyes shut and repeat the same thrusting motion, clutching her hip with one hand, the other pushing into the small of her back. do you reach up and grab a fistful of her hair, pull her head back, push in further, and just as you're about to come, whose name are you saying?
you're all the same.
i've learned deception and lies and unanswered phone calls, i know avoidance and shame and guilt. i've learned it from the best of them. but it's turned me into something horrible and ugly, something i never imagined i would become. it breaks me into pieces, delicate brittle pieces. i don't want to put them back together, and you won't be the one to do it either. no matter how you think you're trying to save me, rescue me, be my refuge.
you're not my savior.


i've been swallowing my anger, sadness, and frustration all day.
maybe that's why as soon as any sort of food comes near my mouth,
i just want to vomit.
i used to avoid writing about these things, because i never wanted those images in my head.
the one i loved sharing intimacies with another i didn't know.
my insides feel as if they're rotting, burning, dying to escape from my body.
but i'd rather create a scene and write about it,
than continue to follow a path of naivety.

every moment is just another scene.
you play a different role in each one, baby.