my hair would turn brittle, limp, it would die at my shoulders. the skies would rain death, and my eyes would cry blood. and I could feel. I could feel the harsh and uncomfortable fabric of carpet under the soft soles of my feet. but I wouldn’t see its color…-e.v.
“if you end up with a boring, miserable life because you listened to your mom, your dad, your teacher, your priest, or some guy on television telling you how to do your shit, then you deserve it.”—zappa
She’s in her room. The bedspread, white, and the soft cushions on which she rests her head, bright red. The morning light creeps through the window and her heavy eyes break open slowly, stinging from the harsh wind that hit her face the night before. But she smiles, even though the corners of her eyes are sticky and her pillow’s stained with make-up. He lies next to her, and he’s still asleep. His eyes a bit open, his mouth a bit wide, still living in that other world we all know but can never stay in. As soon as he hears the sheets ruffle with her movement, he knows it’s morning. So he smiles, he smiles.
“I want to cover my bedroom walls in post-its,” she tells him. “Because in my dream, I lived in a world of post-its.”
“You’re truly and absolutely bizarre,” he says.
And so another day begins, and they tell each other their dreams, and they yawn and stretch and eat and drink, all without leaving her bed.
There’s this lump in my throat—stuck, and my fingers won’t move. I’m constantly uncomfortable, shifting my weight from side to side. My neck will crack three times a day, and I’ll roll over on my back and snap, and snap. My eyes tear up and it hurts to even open them when I wake up each morning. My nails bend, weak, and I dye them apple red to cover up the yellow stains.
My body is trying to tell me something. I have enough water each day, and I work and I laugh and I cry and I run and I cum. I scream. But my fingers won’t move. I feel, and I watch and I smile and I talk, I talk so much, all the time, every day. But my fingers won’t move.
She told me I was unusual, she told me to get out. I got out, but so far I’m further in, somehow. My fingers won’t move, and they’ve been tied to the same place for so long, finding no words, no dripping wax, just stale, hard, crippled have-tos. I only do what I have to, and I haven’t done what I want to. It hurts and my body’s trying to tell me something.
I miss you. I miss you like I knew you back when I thought you were all I wanted. When I was brave enough to think and dream about you, like ambition and accomplishment and truth. I miss you, I miss myself when you were in me, running through me, you made my fingers move so fast. About green eyes and cracked windows and blurry pictures and memory boxes. You remind me of the music that kept me sane and the screams that never left me. I miss you, because of you she thought I was unusual and because of you she wanted me to get out. But without you, my fingers are stuck, they bend only to fetch and scratch but not to connect. Not to speak. They’ve been silent for so long, since I got out. I got out and suddenly, they wouldn’t move.
My body’s trying to tell me something, and I think I know. I know that I have to try, have to surrender, have to stop making excuses, just make them move, make them dance, make them jump around a page, or a wall or a blackboard or a keyboard. Because I miss you, my words. I miss when words were who I was. Words are who I am. But I haven’t had you in so long, for fear. For fear of the weak, which I have been already. But there aren’t enough of you anymore to keep me alive, so I know that my body’s trying to tell me—to reach out. My fingers haven’t moved but they want to, to splurge and vomit on a dirty yellow page, just to feel relief. My fingers want the words, they need the words, and search my body and my brain and my gasping and my dreams.
it’s the sense of touch. in any real city, you walk, you know? you brush past people, people bump into you. in L.A., nobody touches you. we’re always behind this metal and glass. i think we miss that touch so much, that we crash into each other, just so we can feel something.
"God is gonna get you, God is gonna get you," and then, louder, "father, father, father," and the little boy who has eaten the pack of butter is pointing at his father, eyes wide, tiny mouth parted, looking up at him for guidance. The father belches, pulls out another Parliament, lights the cigarette then looks at me and he’s not bad looking.