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paisleythief) wrote2011-07-06 08:40 pm
paisleythief) wrote2011-07-06 08:40 pm
Entry tags:
ANGST
| innocence | chocolate |
| overwhelmed | horizon |
| bias | hell |
| fear | smirk |
| bonds | highway |
| touch | covers |
| smile | lies |
| naked | home |
| silence | natural |
| fall | sex |
1. Post with a header that utilizes one of the prompts
2. Have your character tell me what instant in their lives the header reminds them of
3. Can be as disjointed or nebulous as you like
4. We'll string them together to make a series of snapshot stories*
*lol Im a fucking liar, this is points grubbing at its finest
And it hurts like hell
no subject
If, under all those words and ignored phone calls, I didn't know what you feel like.
Bruised.
Soft, like the spot on a pepper that no one wants to eat.
The meat at the supermarket that's package is pockmarked with little finger indents
children who didn't know any better.
You know, we were children once.
Up and down the aisles,
stealing handfuls of pick-n-mix and refusing the things that were
Good for us.
When who was right was dictated by who could yell the
LOUDEST.
You won't let me touch you anymore and it...
no subject
I don't let you touch me anymore
not because I hate you
(even if I do hate you)
not because I want to be far away
(I miss knowing closeness, I do - do you believe that?)
not because I'm done.
You're almost always right and I kind of hate that about you
almost as much as I hate it when I'm wrong
(that's a lot, but you know that too.)
I don't want to have these conversations where
you open up the dialogue and I'm
always the one closing it
with a phone that goes straight to voicemail, an address that keeps changing, an identity that doesn't want you to find it.
Finding people? That's in my job description
not yours.
Sometimes I wonder if you want me to find you
and I know it's not the same:
keeping tabs on your coordinates
(making sure you're still breathing)
as it would be to just pick up the phone
or hop on a plane
fall into a dream
and say hello,
but it is what it is.
I don't let you touch me anymore.
(But sometimes, I think about it.)
Sometimes when you're...
no subject
I think about you.
What? You thought I would find someone else like you?
That I would look to my left and see your replacement--
smiling (yours is so much brighter)
laughing (god what I wouldn't do to hear it again)
touching (will I ever find someone with hands like yours?)
-- doing all the things you thought I tricked you into?
I hate coffee and you have me drinking it
just to feel you in my mouth again.
You always tasted so
bitter.
Why is it so easy to forget that you are a thief
just like I am?
In your pressed linens and starched polyesters
you are a man who steals things
with those hands that raze the topography of my body; nothing more than a brush of your knuckles to my flesh and I am set alight.
Its driving me crazy, the thought of (you on me, me on you,
above
below
around
within) those answers at the tip of your tongue.
You know they're there, I can see it in the way you look at me.
Like you know I know,
And you're waiting for me to make you say it but
I can't...
no subject
I'm running a job in the heart of Seoul and then I'm
in the middle of a dream set two hundred years ago
and hiding out between a nowhere town in Michigan and
the last city you stole through like smoke, like silence.
I was fidgeting away the hours because
(as you know)
I'm not very good at standing still
thinking of how much the frozen curvatures of the lake
reminded me of your eyes
the gray blue that in the wrong-right light
looks green
(looks right through me.)
No one aside from you does that
as far as I know
as far as I've known.
It wasn't always like this because, I guess
the theory is that things only hurt if they matter
like a gunshot wound, like being stabbed, like
being held underwater until
you forget how to breathe.
You have a specific sound when you're asleep;
did you know?
In the fractal light of three A.M. the moon
would cut gray-blue slants across you
and because I've never been good with sleeping
(that's standing still too)
I would stare until new images fashioned themselves
from the black of the ink and the tan of your skin
stories that you hadn't told me just yet.
The highway goes on forever in this one dream I still have.
You've called shotgun even though it's never an issue
because it's just us
chasing the end of it but not caring if it actually does.
I won't tell you the truth about that long year
being reckless
since you were there too;
I won't tell you
the truth
(I miss...)
Anyway, it's not enough to miss or want; I'd have to need you.
Imagine if I did.
Imagine if I needed you.
Imagine that inside me there's a ghost
with your name on it.
I wish I could tell you since I think sometimes because
that might be the way to make the hard parts easy,
the way to get back into the car and strip the night down,
how to find that one too-early morning where you're holding me
down, quiet, but never still --
-- how to fill the empty room with the sounds and sights
that are mutual to us
one story
our story.
But I don't need you and we don't talk about this.
We don't talk about anything.
I keep it that way.
And it hurts like hell
Or at least, I think we have. I think I have. I think you have.
Somewhere between nowhere and Los Angeles, between England and the end of the world, we were running on the same street. I knew the specific weight of your hand dead-center between my shoulderblades, the splay of fingers digging in because it was what we both wanted. The world might have really been flat instead of round, or that's what I'm guessing because at some point we ran right off the map - lost sight of each other and I'm not saying it's your fault.
(In fact, I figure it might be mine. It's hard for me to tell.
It's hard for me to know.)
You were standing in the doorway or right behind me or so far from me that we can't even look at each other without something sharp and dark punching up between us like a year, like a bad dream - the kind I had when I was little, when I'd wake up and think: I can't breathe, I can't breathe.
We're buying our tickets and the countries we're heading to aren't so far apart; except for the part where one might as well be fictional while the other is real and I can't tell which is which anymore.
I feel you look over at me and it's a question, an opportunity
I don't look back.
I can't breathe, I can't breathe.
It hurts.
Maybe someday, I can tell you why.
And it hurts like hell
Like you've never felt pain
so strong
so deep
that it feels like you can't breathe
can't possibly be alive
after it.
But you are.
You live and keep living even while it feels
like you shouldn't be.
Like you don't want to be because even your bones
ache.
You don't even have to move to feel it.
And who wants to live like that?
I can't feel any sympathy for you.
I just can't.
Not now, not as I am.
It's not because I can't feel or I can't hurt --
it's because I feel and hurt too much.
So much
my only form of defense, to survive this agony that has
never left me,
is to close it off.
To close myself off
as best I can and
reinforce the numbness that I truly believe
has saved me.
Pain lets us know we're alive.
You can still feel it and live.
I had to die just to tolerate it.
You win.
Is anyone home?
no subject
Listen to the words I'm saying, not the words you want to hear.
You're twenty nine and barely alive.
There are people up here that love you
and all you can do is keep your eyes on the ones who jumped.
Is that what I have to do to get your attention?
Destroy something before you have a chance to understand it?
Believe me boy, I know all about self-destruction
and you look like you might just know a thing or two about preservation.
Focus, this is important.
Stop watching my lips, I'm not trying to trick you.
What part of I love you didn't you understand?
I know the words aren't unfamiliar to you.
Perhaps I should say them in a way you would understand;
Je t'aime.
Eroded by the rain and the soft Parisian sunshine
is a date on a tombstone that should read:
Here lies his heart, held in her hands.
Are you listening? Darling, did you nod off again?
no subject
I'm listening to you and I'm listening
to the silence I keep responding with
whenever you bring this up
whenever you (we) get like this
which is why you keep asking me if I've fallen
asleep.
You have my attention; you have it more than I want to tell you
since telling you is the same as breaking a superstition
and I've never been very superstitious but there's
a first time for everything.
It's a distraction, all of these words
I like you, dropped off the side of the highway
I want you, shot through window glass out of an abandoned office building
I love you, misplaced
over and over,
met in the train station, met on the gondola not moving fast enough, met in the cider mill outside of a town I think would have been nice to grow up in, met in the dark -
- the place I know you best.
(Even if I pretend not to.
This used to be convenient.
This used to be easy.
I think.)
I'm listening even if I don't really want to.
I'm listening to you even if I
already know
what you're going to say.
I love you.
She used to say that too.
And I don't think it means the same thing
but sometimes it's hard to tell.
no subject
I don't understand why you can't understand that.
Can't you understand I have no home?
That I've never had one?
Now you just expect me to fall into this life
that you say you've always wanted
always hoped to have.
What would you say if I told you I couldn't ever hope for something like this?
That I never allowed hope to enter my thoughts
or dreams.
I wouldn't allow it to come in and puff them up higher than I can reach when I
needed to pull them back down so I'm not left
stranded and listless.
What would you say if I told you I couldn't ever hope for someone like you?
Because that... that has just never seemed plausible in any sense
of the word.
What would you say if I told you I couldn't ever hope for my home to be in someone like you?
And neither is something I ever thought I would have.
So, I need some time
to adjust.
The covers smelled like you for the longest time.
on a highway covered in black ice
fucking is just sex (until i make you feel something)
no subject
It was only suppose to be us
fucking.
Nothing more than that.
You weren't suppose to make me
feel
that this was more
than what it
should be.
You were inside me
and now I can't get you
out.
You make wish that I had never let you into
any part of
me.
..... was this your plan
all along?
Or am I just another fuck to you?
Another body in the sheets
making them moist with sweat
and my smell only remaining as long as
you keep them on the bed
before it is covered up by a wash
or another body
that isn't
mine.
I'm not afraid of anything.
no subject
I'll never say it, how could I?
Afraid to be too close.
Afraid to be so far I lose my chance.
Afraid to lose myself along the way to you, to anyone.
Afraid to lose when I finally have what I have always wanted.
What I never knew I wanted.
Afraid to be helpless in any part of you.
Whether it be your shadow or wake.
Your words, your touches, your eyes, your lips.
So many parts I have grown attached to before I even knew.
I wish I didn't care at all.
Why did you do this to me?
I am afraid to open myself to you only for you to hate what you see
Like I often do.
Or don't understand it
Like I do even more often.
And then you'll leave.
Just like all the others before you.
Or you'll slip through my fingers
Like Your soul slipping from your body
And I
And all the strength and power
I have tried
So hard all my life to have
And keep
Is powerless.
Is meaningless
In that moment.
And you'll be gone
Forever.
And I am left alone
Again.
You make me powerless
And I hate you for it.
With every fiber that I am.
I say such things because
they are the only thing I have
to defend against
what you do to me
every time I fucking see you
or hear you.
If I told you how much I
love you
how much I care
how happy
so happy
you make me
in the smallest of moments
with the smallest of actions
would you
could you
promise me
that you would stay.
Stay with me forever
no matter what I do
or say
and never
ever
give up on me?
How can anyone promise such a thing and it be true?
How can I open my heart
when I am
certain that it was broken
beyond repair
beyond rebirth
so long ago.
That hole in me
I am afraid of that
too.
I am afraid it will be filled too much
and it will make whatever skin that exists
inside to make up that nonexistent
heart
will burst apart and I will die
in that instant.
I am afraid I will die one day when I am not ready to go.
I am afraid I will die and not see it coming or know it's happening.
I don't want to die in my sleep.
Don't let me die in my sleep.
I want to be awake.
I want to see your eyes
I want to hear your voice in my ear
as I go.
I could go into whatever awaits me
on the other side
if I went like that.
I am afraid that hole in me will never be filled.
That it will grow and expand and consume me
until I
disappear.
Don't let that happen.
Could you do that?
Can you understand me at all?
I'm afraid for anyone to ever know me so well
that they understand me
better than I do.
What fairness lies in that?
Have I not suffered through enough
unfairness in this
life?
At the hands of others.
At the hands of you.
At the hands of this universe.
of Fate.
At the hands of myself.
I am afraid I will destroy myself.
And not in the way
I want.
I am afraid something
inside
will collapse
and I will never
be able to
stand
again.
I am afraid you will see how truly
empty and pathetic
a creature
I really am.
I have no heart.
The soul is still debating
remaining
in the shell
I now make.
Somedays I can't even remember how I got this way.
But I can't be afraid
of anything
when I really
have nothing else
inside to lose.
I did once.
I think.
If I fall would you catch me?
It's your fault this silence now overwhelms me.
Your touch is imprinted under my skin now.
I remember my fingertips tracing a smile that was more natural and treasured than my own.
The chocolate on your tongue was the sweetest I had ever tasted.