18) love letter

I could never leave you-your reflection behind.  The snapshot of a mirror encompassing what I see inside of you, of you, you?  An image of perfection with smoothed edges, the mist in my eyes blurring visions of you.  Always speaking with our backs touching.  Conversations carried out in echoes, responding to the tail-end of statements that had no mouth for correct explanations.  Beauty in my eyes, arrogance in reality.  If failure were possible, this would be your downfall.  But with one smudge of a charcoal thumb, you are beautiful again.  The artist of delusion rewriting, re-recording, thoughts of you.  Reels snipped away and pieced together to make something worth loving.  I forget the distance between the original and this creation.  Remembering again breaks me apart.  Shearing my heart so I can build it all up again.

paperimages: Vincent van Gogh Vincent to Theo, letter dated July 1880 “Does what happens inside show on the outside? There is such a great fire in one’s soul, and yet nobody ever comes to warm themselves there, and passersby see nothing but a little smoke coming from the top of the chimney, and go on their way.” [f]
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paperimages:

Vincent van Gogh

Vincent to Theo, letter dated July 1880

“Does what happens inside show on the outside? There is such a great fire in one’s soul, and yet nobody ever comes to warm themselves there, and passersby see nothing but a little smoke coming from the top of the chimney, and go on their way.” [f]

(via darksilenceinsuburbia)

Source: paperimages

17) trust

I don’t hear anything for a beat after I’m done writing.  No intake of breath or small mock of a laugh.  Good.  Best of all, I know what it means this time.  No riddles, no lies, no games.  Just a simple acknowledgment that leaves complications to wither into a smoother surface.  The smile on my mouth creeps into the reflection, doubles, then returns.  Wasn’t so difficult.

For you maybe.

All I get is a grin.  Then, nothing.

16) fill in the blank

It’s not a difficult game, I’m sure you can handle it.  The words are written in sharpie on the mirror—

I _____ you completely

—their own reflection peeking out behind the purple-black mess.  Just guess something, anything. You can’t go wrong.

Liar, you and I both know that’s a lie.  My tongue is sandpaper. You’re looking for something and I don’t know what that is and if I guess it’s going to be wrong.  The roof of my mouth is bleeding.  Somewhere iron is burning.

I _____ you completely.

First thing that comes to mind, just tell me.  I don’t want to let it go, don’t want my answer to be free out there.  It’s so backwards, to know this, but never say it, never show it.  I can’t tell if the shadow behind me is mine anymore.  A whisper— just write it.
 

15) phone call (2)

[start]

“Why weren’t you there?”

“Right.  Like I’d take any of your apologies seriously after you abandoned me, again. And again.”

“It’s completely justified, why wouldn’t I?”

“So you will never ignore me like that again, have never glazed right over my phone calls, canceled them without looking at the screen.  Will never turn your head when I talk about things that you just can’t take. Like I can believe that.”

“You were promising more than you could give.”

“You still say it anyway! What’s worse—never having any support? Or realizing that what support you thought you had was hollow? You tell me.  You tell me!”

“No! I’ve listened to you enough, I’ve heard your bullshit already! Go find a person whose problems you can mentally handle and save them, okay? Go be a hero.”

[silence]

[silence]

“Whoever said I was looking to survive?”

[end]

14) phone call (1)

[start]

“Sorry I couldn’t make it in this weekend, I know…”

“I don’t have a good reason, I can’t give you one. I’m sorry.”

“Don’t say that.”

“Why? Because you know it’s not true! None of it is, or will be, ever true.”

“I promised you, remember? Promised never to do any of those things, promised never to hurt you.”

“I know it’s impossible.”

“Listen—”

“I know!  Just— stop!”

[silence]

“I know I can’t hold that up… can’t keep you safe. No one can, but to not try? Don’t ignore me. Don’t go on hurting and breaking yourself then taking it out on me because you’ve become used to your own pain. I won’t give you what you’re looking for.”

[silence]

“You won’t survive like this.”

[end]

13) two (3?) dogs

black tan then black (?) again.  ribs sinew gloss (?) laced two (3?) barks.

i think the third was silent.  i dont remember its presence well with the red leash cutting its head off and all.  a gentle (?) threat.

go on get!

the leash can talk (bark?) apparently. they hesitate before ultimately disappearing behind a suv kissing half dead bushes on the other side of the parking lot.  ive been staring and he saw me i know but my filters were out for a wash and i kept on.  he leaves first.

now there are no dogs on this side of the walk.  (snarling)

(gnashing of anger rolling in to sharp bursts)  i rewind my position.

there is one (zero?) dog in an alleyway across the street.  the leash is lazy and weak easily subverted with its uncaring slack pulled taut by the ineffective attacks of a small white puff against a fence.  its tail swings in the air betraying the sound from its throat.

i laugh and go back home.  those two dogs will die.  but somehow they are in me now.  curiously barking to another who never learned their language and who can only follow the red noose silencing its voice without ever tightening an inch. 

i understand please know that i understand you i dont want you to die i dont want to lose you again

i dont want to forget this

12) news alert

I stopped posting because I couldn’t seem to keep from being honest in the posts.  This made me uncomfortable. Apparently when I write anything, even though fiction really is made up entirely of lies, I can’t help but notice the honest bits of myself in there.  I know you can’t see them, the same way that I can’t see the bits of you reflected back on my screen, but the possibility that you could scared me.  Scares me.  Rational/irrational, the ratio fluctuates with time.  I would rather fight to keep both, though, rather than give in to either.

If this means I’m taken advantage of — fine.

If this means I feel like dying sometimes — fine.

If this means I contradict myself — fine.

Because I’d rather be able to translate these worlds I feel rather than ignore them completely or be lost in them forever.  Translation facilitates exploration.  It’s about expression, my friends — from me to you and back again.

11) reflected

There was a tapping on the base of my spine when I first saw — then scrape, push and sever.  Nausea rising from my stomach as my legs collapsed beneath me.  The crack of knees against an unforgiving floor.  The shock rode along the waves of sickness as my arms strained to keep me partially upright against the fingers running up my shoulders.  My eyes were the inward turned walls, giving me a full view of what was happening, distance doing nothing to lessen the sensations.  Brushing down my right arm, left arm my skin tightening in expectation, muscles pulling together as lungs filled with what I hoped was enough life to pull me through this.  It digs into my forearms, running its nails along bone until hitting my wrists, twisting through them and nailing me down.  Though my head was down, mouth struck mute by the shaking realization of myself, the walls watched and filled the air with representations of what this meant.  Not in words, those would come later, but in effects.  Those walls controlled everything in here.  Yet my blood still pooled beneath me.

10) the effect

I am holding a box, bits of it entering my skin as splinters, leaving its mark.  I tighten my grip, but do not notice the edges digging into my skin.  Inside a black insect flits its wings against the nailed lid before falling back down again.  It buzzes.  Cloudy breath fogs up the window pane I’ve sidled up to, my excitement hiding the view inside.  It clears as a chill passes by, inching my exposed skin closer to frozen.  There is a playground inside, swing sets, fake grass, wood chips protected from the cold by six translated walls made of glass.  Some of them have their boxes strapped to them, others leave them open, letting all manners of creatures to crawl along their pristine skin.  Ladybugs, bees with kind stingers, an odd finch or chipmunk clinging to bodies radiating.  Perched on shoulders or heads, running down arms, curled up in their own etched metal boxes, they are perfect pairs in forever perfect afternoons.  Jaw clenched, fingertips red, body rattling in the wind.  My wings are buzzing.