Today I saw your face and I could have sworn I knew it.
YOUR NECK IS BROKE, STOP LOOKING BACK!
Would you give up everything you love, for yourself?
Grab me, green eyes.
Even in all this still, her tired body slumps next to me. Far too many faces pass. The wind whistles and it’s sting hits the tip of my ears. I hear not a lot, but the sounds of birds hungry for the crumbs of the food everyone seems too greedy to give up, they keep shoving that money down their throat, note after note after note. I hear footsteps of the motivated, the quick-paced, the ones like she. I hear the slow scuff of the ones who go nowhere, are nowhere, want nowhere; the ones like me. I hear myself screaming “that’s her!” it’s not. It never is. She’s never close enough to see, or feel, or smell; but she taps me on the shoulder at every chance she gets, places herself next to me on park benches and claws at the inside of my skull. She lets me know what it’s like to be made to feel worthless by someone unknown; how it feels to have my head smashed against pavement. She screams back “You’re not good enough. You can’t look as good as me through a lens. Your eyes don’t work. Your words are obtuse and your hands just don’t know! I AM ART AND YOU ARE EMPTY!”
As my tired body slumps next to no one, my lungs breath clean and heavy and my mind grows exhausted. I struggle though succeed to remind myself that I have truth and I have you. She has none.
How lovely to be unknown amongst hundreds and thousands of hopelessly tragic faces. How relieving to not be forced to pass familiar places, to walk along the same long stretch of loss. That place where you drew the air from my lungs and wrote our story as our naked bodies danced upon one another’s. How peaceful to no longer feel you were the gravity that kept both battered feet on the ground and to know I’m able to reach inside myself and throw away our memories and make room to create my mind anew. To see lights with someone else, to hear a whole new tune, to dance again and again and again. To stand in this cold station with a warm cup in hand, waiting for all I’ve asked for, waiting to be someone’s, sincerely wanting with all I have. To not look at every similar feature upon someone else and crave their taste in hope they taste just like you. To throw out the curtains that blackened our room and kept us locked in together, to throw the garments which still carried your scent. To no longer want your possessions poisoning me, bringing me to my knees at every glance of those useless inanimate pieces of crap.
God, how good this feels.
And just like words, faces begin to distort and become quaint when I stare at them.
I need to carry notes, fill my backpack with thoughts and scribble down ramblings on the side walks, trains, among the people. I seem to clear out my mind and toss it along side the rubbish once I step through that front door and enter this dark, desolate apartment. I end up feeling restless and creatively unsatisfied, chewing at my finger nails, ripping the papillae from my tongues tip and shoving my fist down my own throat to try to pull up words. I end up retching and feeling my insides heave leaving behind nothing but damp beneath my feet and an apathetic me, lifelessly drooling. I’m never satisfied. My words have never lived up to my own expectations. I should probably stop chewing my nails.
I was the oil and lavender, but never for you.
”..something that makes my insides whir and my heart hungry.”