tonight
me: I think the lights are flickering. Does that mean the building is using too much electricity?
jackie: Oh...are they flickering? I didn't notice.
me: Yeah, I'm pretty sure they're flickering. Or I could be going crazy. Or blind. Wait--what? I dunno. Which is worse?
jackie: Uh, going blind.
me: Really? Because when you're crazy, you can't really get anything done. At least if you were blind you could do stuff.
Jackie: Uh, no. That's not true. You can't fucking see.
jackie: Oh...are they flickering? I didn't notice.
me: Yeah, I'm pretty sure they're flickering. Or I could be going crazy. Or blind. Wait--what? I dunno. Which is worse?
jackie: Uh, going blind.
me: Really? Because when you're crazy, you can't really get anything done. At least if you were blind you could do stuff.
Jackie: Uh, no. That's not true. You can't fucking see.
the difference?
the difference is that i screw up my eyes and try
to recreate those feelings again
but it never really works.
because you're not comparable, my dear.
the difference is that i screw up my eyes and try
to recreate those feelings again
but it never really works.
because you're not comparable, my dear.
"highly perishable: keep refrigerated"
do you realize how wonderful those days were when we photosynthesized all the sunlight and soaked your bedsheets with it? you paralyzed me, chained me to the mattress with smiles until my dimples cramped. goddammit, how I want that. I want the brightness pouring through your window to lock me in your arms again. but all I have are these bars, these fucking blinds that don't work and wake me too early, only to find that you're in some other dimension I can't reach from the gold coast.
my thighs fell asleep once under the weight of your head in my lap. every time any part of me sleeps now, whether it be a foot or an arm, it's of you it dreams.
my thighs fell asleep once under the weight of your head in my lap. every time any part of me sleeps now, whether it be a foot or an arm, it's of you it dreams.
"A writer is a writer because even when there is no hope, even when nothing you do shows any sign of promise, you keep writing anyway."
— Junot Díaz
— Junot Díaz
I stopped thinking about -- a long time ago
-- became some kind of object
that I kept in the bottom of my sock drawer
or on the top shelf
buried beneath warm comforter for winter
in my closet,
but I guess because of my convenience.
I have fucked myself over.
and now everything is
a bad Pet Shop Boys cover
of an Elvis song.
with backs craned over
the hoods of cars
and turning pages together,
I'll fall asleep alone tonight.
the only one that feels this way
--as difficult as forgetting
how to ride a bicycle
my voice doesn't
want to sing alone
--so soft against me;
i'll never feel that again.
-- became some kind of object
that I kept in the bottom of my sock drawer
or on the top shelf
buried beneath warm comforter for winter
in my closet,
but I guess because of my convenience.
I have fucked myself over.
and now everything is
a bad Pet Shop Boys cover
of an Elvis song.
with backs craned over
the hoods of cars
and turning pages together,
I'll fall asleep alone tonight.
the only one that feels this way
--as difficult as forgetting
how to ride a bicycle
my voice doesn't
want to sing alone
--so soft against me;
i'll never feel that again.
