remember--

he could have been anyone.
he almost was-- anyone. he never made promises. i never wanted them.
i want to write about him, without thinking about him.
possibilities?

spiraling.

I don't really know what it is I need, actually. But I still always find that I'm convincing myself of all of these things. i need some time alone to figure thngs out, this is the only way it's going to happen. without him. without us. he isn't right for me. i'm not right for him. he needs someone better, someone smarter, someone prettier. i have to experience life on my own, no ropes, no commitment.

And I find those strings of words flowing through my brain, out of my mouth, in between clouds of smoke. And she looks at me, nodding in agreement, understanding that this could be truth tumbling out from between my lips. But is it really?

He drove away from me that night and I had felt nothing. I did not feel abandoned, nor alone, nor sad. I had just been. I had small expectations for my emotions this time around. I laid in bed, closed my eyes, and sleep came easily. The dreams had not started yet.

I was selfish in telling him that I hated dreaming about him. I hate it because it leaves him fresh in my mind when I wake up, he's the first realization in my morning haze. Dreams have always held meaning for me, even if indecipherable. I had to tell him to reassure myself that it was...just a dream.

meant to write.

9.07.09
I don't deserve to write to you. When I can't even talk to you when it matters most, when I force you to repeat the same questions over and over in the dark.
I begin to see flashes of images rather than think about how I should respond to you.
I see the manifestation of us as our primal selves, ripping and tearing at one another, layers of skin and hair sloughing off, but never shedding any blood. We strip ourselves bare and build each other back up again.
I feel even more guarded than when we began.
I stopped writing because my written words are meaningless. How can I script promises without following through with them?
I make it hard on purpose.
But, I am trying to ignore the fact that I have traveled a full 360 degrees and I am back to where I began: defiant, ignorant, stubborn, selfish, righteous, naive, undeserving.

I hold myself back in fear of...

harlot.

I didn’t plan for it to be this way. the screaming. the way her arms were flailing and her lips were sputtering out frantic insults and accusations. Her index finger slicing through the air.
The way his eyes dropped down, low to the ground, his eyelashes veiling the guilt circling his pupils.
He was always apologizing. To me, to her, to himself.
But to no one at all really.

I was feeling slightly woozy from the ambien I took earlier. I wanted to lie down on his plush bed and rock myself to sleep. There was no hope of that with all her profanities bouncing off the plaster.

He stood there in the middle of the living room, avoiding eye contact with either of us. She was inching closer and closer to him, her words a muddled combination of anger, guilt, and shame. Her face was red, burning, her eyes two glowing embers, and I thought, Lilith resurrected from dirt and filth come to take revenge on mankind.

Her serpent tongue lashing out, I can’t believe you could do this to me. I invested so much of my time into you. And for what? To find you cheating on me with some slut?

He manages to look up at her, his lips a thin white line.

I didn’t care too much about the slut remark. It just reminded me of the games we played in bed- me and him curled around each other, our hands searching and guiding, caressing and pinching, my nails digging deeper into the flesh on his back until fistfuls of my hair are wrapped around his fingers and he’s whispering wickedness into my ears, you’re my slut, aren’t you? Do you like being my slut?
I almost smiled at the thought of us naked and drenched in sweat and sex before I caught myself, remembering where I was at the moment, remembering who was standing there with her wide eyes and snapping jaw.

To:

do you know, it doesn't change- the way I feel about you, at the end of the day.
because I know all I want, is what you got.
[susie suh; all i want]

piano is soothing.

even strangers pray for me.

his fingers move in slow, steady motions;
delicately caressing the ruby chain, a sterling silver crucifix glinting off the end of it.
i become mesmerized by repetitive movement, bodies swaying together with the rumbling of the F train.
but i am focused on him--his hands, his lips, his closed eyes.
i know that he is praying, but to any pair of roaming eyes,
he would appear to be asleep.

another morning.
red and black checkered hunchbacked grandmother, burning red lipstick.
she chooses the seat next to me in a half empty train.
her gnarled, yet nimble fingers unfasten her backpack.
i watch her from the corner of my eye.
you could say it's a hobby, people watching.
she unzips a small black change purse inside of her backpack.
her fingers unravel light pink rosary beads, a small sterling silver rounded crucifix revealed.
she locks it in her tiny fist.
the holy trinity across her chest.
eyes slightly closed.
red lipsticked lips in silent motion.
who is she speaking to? for? about?

Thank you, Professor Ramjerdi

Mink-

Wow. This is publishable work. First step to success as a professional writer is to get published in leading lit. mags. I know some, but am not up-to-date on these as haven't sent out work for a long time, since I've been doing novels. Short story contests are also good things to enter. What are your academic/professional plans? Let's talk before semester ends and stay in touch. I'd like to be of any help I can. The lesbian content goes really well with what you've said you're doing in this story--> unraveling Korean girl expectations.
P.S. This scene is up there with father section of first story. Maybe you're writing a novel and that story and this one are parts of it. I think you should write this novel. I think it could succeed with a great publisher. Anyway, you are doing some great writing and should continue.

-Prof. Ramjerdi