I could be someone. Someone real and warm and beautiful. I see her in my head sometimes, the girl I want to be. Wild and crazy but so loving. And I want to be that way. I feel like I could do it sometimes, become her. Sometimes when I'm with my friends I do crazy things and I tell them I love them and for a few moments I feel happy and safe and beautiful. But then those moments end, and I feel as worthless as ever. I'm nothing special, I think I could be, if I became that girl. But right now I'm just lonely and selfish and defensive. I'm not mean, I don't think, I'm just so angry and scared that I take it out on the people I should love. People who were supposed to love me betrayed me once, a long time ago. It still hurts and I feel like every relationship I've been in has been unhealthy and abusive, on both sides. I just really hope I get to be that girl someday.
"I begged her...I begged her!" He cried. "She turned away from me, covered in a veil of silence; walking out the door into the cold night air." His body trembled as he relayed the events of his evening to me. What do I say in a moment like this? What could I do to take his pain away? Nothing. I stared at him, blank-faced and squeezed his big toe, as he lay helpless on the hospital gurney in physical and mental pain. "They will do what they can to save your thumb".
Gold-diggers laughing at their shaking pan, sifting sand from yellowish nuggets of hope. Gold-diggers with the slippery fingers and the sweaty crevices, keeping secrets of speculative spots and digging holes. Gold digging old men, with a long shot strategy to compensate for their histories of lethargy. To compensate for their social rejection. To bury struggle once and for all under a mountain of quick wealth. Old unshaven men still angry at their drunken fathers shaking their wishing pans, gazing magically with their omniscient eyes. Today the sun is out and they attend to every sparkle. Scrap the gasps. Shrug the shoulders. Toss the sand. Refill the shaking-pan. Refill the hope chamber. There goes that damn woodpecker again, pounding away at his tree.
your clean short hair, your brown warm eyes, your caring smile, our empty promises drift around us, the pinks and yellows woven into the sky we sit under, the glittering lake in which our feet drip into, the soft humming of music delights our ears, you hand upon mine as you prop yourself up on one knee and ask me to take your name, the perfect person, in the perfect moment but that's a moment meant for someone else, i don't want perfect, i don't want beautiful. You'll never understand that i want the apartment without heating, the mould scuttling up the ceiling, the broken light dangling down engulfed in glittering spiderwebs, the stick man drawings on the walls, your tired arms scattered with scars and traces of acne draped around my waist, the freckles littering your skin like the constellations in the night, your dark unruly hair that sticks up at the back sometimes, your honest smile, your promise to never promise, your exposed thoughts holding mine. i want to love and be loved in the rotting corner of the world