Fine.

I'm okay. 

You say this after a car accident. When you realize you aren't moving anymore. When everything is still. 

You say this after a break-up. The moments after someone says that they don't love you, they never did and they never want to see you again. 

"I'm okay." And you tell yourself you left three pairs of panties, half a carton of orange juice and a bottle of shampoo in their apartment. You decide not to go back for any of these things. 

"I'm okay." is sometimes whispered when you wake up in an unfamiliar place, like a park or a Denny's restroom. Unsure of how you got there. You check to see if you still have panties on, you push your fingers in your vagina. You check to see if you smell anything other than that familiar pussy smell. You're bra is still on. You're okay, now you just have to figure out where your car is. 

"I'm okay." when someone asks how your day was. And you get the feeling that no matter what you said, they wouldn't care. 

I'm not okay. I'm not okay. I'm not okay. But I will be. 

Girls

Push.

She is a silly foolish girl, the kind that cries while watching Wall-E, she cries when she sees children being scolded at the grocery store. She cries when something ends. The stupid little thing who looks up at you with glassy eyes and says simply, “Hold me, I’m scared.”

The aliens are coming and all she cares about are arms and kisses.

Who can blame our girl? Those little hands grabbing for anything. 
How can we blame her for taking things that are willingly given to her?

That coy voice and light laughter. The phone calls, breathy and needy, “Please talk to me for a little while longer, just this once.”

She needs that voice on the other end reassuring her that the moon will not fall out of the sky if she closes her eyes, she needs that voice to tell her that it isn’t ever really dark. When you have her attention, she’ll follow your voice to the edge of the volcano. And with a light tap she’ll fall into oblivion, happy and content.

And this is who she is until she isn't. 

Until she's a women and in a dark room she listens to her breath and feels her own pulse. 

She isn't scared anymore because all she was ever scared of was herself. 

untitled 28

Wine makes my vagina feel funny.

I sit on a rocking chair and slowly drink a glass of wine.

I'm not where I want to be, but I know how to get there.

When I turned 26 I spent the day forgetting it was my birthday. I was somewhere in West Virginia. A place I couldn't find again if I tried. With people whose last names I never learned. Holding a nameless baby.

You won't understand this, sometimes I don't understand it either. But there it is, our life taking us into strange places if we allow it to.

This baby felt weightless in my arms. Dressed only in a diaper, the baby's skin stuck to mine. It was about 99 degrees. The grandmother had placed the child in my arms before I could protest.

I asked if she had ever been in love. She said she was married at 15. She said she was scared and didn't even know what love really felt like until she had her first child. And then she liked the feeling so much, she kept having children. She said the man she married had never loved her, but that her children did and that sometimes, that's all that a woman could ask for.

She told me I looked good holding a baby.

I told her I wanted to fall in love, she said not to look for love. She said that sometimes we have to make our own love and sometimes love finds us. I asked her how I would know if I should make my own love or find it.  She said if she knew that, she'd be a millionaire.

She moved behind me and began to separate my hair into three parts and then proceeded to braid it. She said not to worry. She said that love was already looking for me.

I silently cried as she braided my hair.

You have to sit perfectly still, because if you move you might fall, and this time you may never get back up. 

Your eyes fill with tears and you think of many things.

The last kiss you had that you didn't know was your last. You tell yourself what it was like, the lips, the warmth, the moisture. But you don't remember his eyes that you had once gazed into, those blue eyes with flecks of yellow. There was a time when you could recall every speck, when you named every freckle on his nose. The particular shade of his eyelashes. But now, it's out of focus, and everything is bright and unclear. 

You think about being in the 1st grade and losing your best friend, her name was Patty. She had light brown hair and her eyes were too big for her face. She invited you to her birthday party over the weekend and you couldn't go because your mom made you go to your grandma's house. On Monday Patty told you Rene was her best friend now. At lunch time you sit on the bench by the swings, there is sand in your sandals and you are alone. You look around and wait for a swing to be free. The bench is warm and your feet dangle and hover a few inches from the ground.

You think about holding your grandfather's hand while he died. You can see his chest move up and down, slower and slower. His chest becomes still and everything stops. His hand is still warm in your hand and you wait for him to breath. And when he doesn’t, you hold onto his hand tighter.

You think about everything that has broken your heart. You think about all the new ways your heart can be broken. And you wonder how much more you can take.

So you sit very still and you wait for love.

You wait for something to hold you and nurture you, whisper in your ear, “Everything will be fine.”

You hardly notice tears are streaming down your face. And you hope with your whole heart that things will be different someday.

And to an empty room, you whisper a plea to no one in particular:

“Please hurry.”

Time

Running. 

I can feel my breath quicken. My throat has a pulse. 

I'm thinking about the last time I spoke with you. We were at a cafe whose name I couldn't pronounce. 

"Why do you have to have so many opinions? Why do you have to be so different?"

I sat quietly. I didn't know who to be. I didn't know what to say. 

I looked at you and waited for a prompt. I waited for you to give me the answer. 

At that moment, I would have been anything you wanted. I just didn't want to be alone. I didn't know who I could be without you. 

The first time we kissed you held my face and kissed me hard. Your tongue pushed hard into my mouth and pushed against the roof of my mouth. 

You said, "You're different from anyone I've ever met. You're amazing."

And now we were here, and you were breaking up with me. You asked if I wanted a coffee, I said no. I couldn't talk. I just wanted everything to be okay. 

"I'll change. I just get excited and I don't think before I talk. It's a bad habit, I'm working on it. I'm sorry."

I waited, hoping this would be enough to make you stay. 

"You won't change. That's not who you are."

"Please, I love you."

"I love you too. You're just too different."

"But that's why you liked me in the first place. I don't understand. How can you be rejecting me for being different when the reason you asked me out was because I was different? How does that make any fucking sense?"

"You have so many opinions, you have so many things you want to do and see and everything. I like it here, I want to spend weekends having barbecue's with friends. I don't want to be going everywhere and seeing everything."

"What the fuck are you even talking about? I love you. Doesn't that mean anything? Don't you know how rare this is?"

"It's not working."

"That's it."

"Yeah, that's it."

"Okay, you're a fucking disappointment. You're weak and pathetic. I wish I'd never met you. I don't care how old you are, you will always be a scared child. You're boring and you'll lead a boring life. I will never love you again. I don't ever want to see you again. If you see me, walk right past me. There is nothing between us anymore. I don't even feel sorry for you or angry, you're nothing. You're a waste of time. I was an idiot to think you could ever be anything other than ordinary."

I got up and left. I never saw you again. 

---------------------------

My throat has it's own heartbeat. I run farther and the heat from the sun makes the top of my head warm to the touch. 

bee

He told me a story about a man who fell off a cliff  into the ocean because the dog he was walking chased a bee over the cliff. The dog and man were air lifted from a helicopter to safety. They both survived.

Naturally this isn't quite accurate. The man didn't go over the cliff with the dog. The dog wasn't chasing a bee, it was chasing a rabbit.

The dog didn't die, it was lifted to safety by 4 people pulling a harness. 

I like his version better. 

He says things that make me laugh and I like it when he becomes shy. 

To be truthful, he's the best part of my day. 

When I was little I didn't have imaginary friends, I did however imagine a life that was very different from my own. On a car ride I would pretend we were driving to a funeral or a party. 

In the shower I would pretend I was a mermaid who was stranded on land and couldn't go back to the sea. 

I had several acceptance speeches written, perfected and performed in my room for The Oscars, the Pulitzer, the Grammy's. 

I pretended I was the president. 

A political prisoner. 

The pope. 

Dustin Hoffman. 

Or someone who just won the lottery and was speaking at a press conference. 

I wish I could say this wild imagining was phased out. It hasn't. Sometimes I'll be driving and I'll tell myself I'm driving to the airport, and I'm going to start a new life in a far away land. I'm going to ride a horse on the shore of an ocean I've never seen. I'm going to learn how to cook fancy meals and feed lots of people I don't know yet, but who will love me. 

I think about what I'll wear and who I'll send postcards to. I'll imagine my mom crying and my sister making a stupid face. I imagine how I'll change my voicemail message, "Hi, I'm not here anymore, I've started a new life in a faraway land, leave a message and I'll send you a postcard." 

I imagine what my friends will say and the declarations of love that will be professed and to which I'll reply, "I'm sorry, you're too late, I'm in love with a foreigner with long hair and a cool accent. Love someone else, you'll get over me."

Sometimes I'll imagine the warmth of his hand on mine or how his lips would feel against my lips. I wonder what Sunday evenings would be like or what we would do for my birthday. 

And then a car behind me will honk and I'll remember I've been daydreaming too long at a traffic light again. 

1:41 am

I'm watching an episode of, "Cheers" on television.

I wonder if it's worse to be pretty and then get fat and ugly; or to be fat and ugly and just sorta stay fat and ugly.

Of course, I'm talking about Kirstie Alley. I remember seeing her in, "Look Who's Talking" and thinking, "Gosh, she's so pretty!"

Sharon Stone doesn't even look like Sharon Stone (whatever that means), even Brad Pitt is getting old.

Sometimes I look into the mirror and I rub my grubby fingertips over my face, the dips and puffiness. I scrunch my face together and say, "This is the future."

Thankfully I've never been beautiful. People say I'm "cute," cute is okay with me.

Beauty gets you into trouble, you get too much attention.

Being ugly is just as bad, people are mean to you just for existing! People also ignore you. No one wants to sit by you on a bus. No one asks where you are.

Although there are exceptions, these are just broad generalizations based only on looks - personality and talent factored in changes things.

While I was neither ugly or beautiful growing up, I had the unique privilege of being "cute."

And believe me, I knew I was cute. As a child I knew what facial expressions to make and what voice intonations to use to solicit the maximum amount of good will and affection from peers and adults. In my prime I was probably the equivalent to a brown barrio version of Shirley Temple.

I fondly remember that little girl. It's rare to feel powerful and fearless, I have been lucky to feel this way many times in life.

When I was six my family went on a fishing trip. Three of my cousins followed us in a separate car. One of my cousins was 16 the others were 14 and 12. My sister was 13. I had to wear those flotation device arm things, even though I wasn't in the water. My mom thought if a strong wind picked me up and carried me into the lake, atleast I wouldn't drown.

We sat on the bank of the lake in our lawn chairs. Everyone had a fishing rod. I carefully picked a plump earthworm from the plastic container that we had purchased a few minutes prior at a Bait and Tackle Shop.

The worm was slippery and it made me laugh. I told me dad I didn't think it was nice to hurt a worm. He said that the worms were bad worms that were defective because they had been born without mouths and were blind. He said they couldn't feel anything either. I thought it was sad they had been born like that and pushed the plump body onto the hook. I cast my rod and wedged it in the soft dirt.

I saw my 16 year old cousin sitting quietly holding the plastic carton of worms, I said, "Hey, it's okay to put the worm on the hook, they are blind and have no mouths and they can't feel anything."

He didn't say anything.

"Umm hey...I said it's okay. Don't you want to get a fish? My dad says if you get a fish you get to make a wish, like when it's your birthday, but it counts like 5 birthday wishes."

He said he didn't like worms. So I picked a worm and put it on his hook and walked away. I did that all day, sometimes the worms would slip off, so I'd put on a new one. He just smiled and didn't say anything.

I caught one fish, but it was a baby fish and my dad threw it back into the lake.

On the drive home my cousin asked if I wanted to drive back with them, I said sure and then he said, "You can sit shotgun."

It was the first time I got to sit in the front seat, I felt very grownup. I rolled the windows down and I changed the radio station. My sister asked why I got to sit in the front and my other cousins moaned and said it wasn't fair. My 16 year old cousin didn't even answer them. I tried to pick a radio station that he might like but I got caught up in a song by The Ronettes that made me laugh, he didn't seem to mind.

I remember the air smelled like it was going to rain, but it didn't.

Ella and Me

"While I'm crying for you, you're laughing at me."

Ella Fitzgerald is singing to me again.

I take another drink. I'm teaching myself to drink whiskey.

Two days ago I was laughing and talking with friends. Today I'm brooding and half naked in my room. Singing along with songs that are sung by people who have been dead for years.

My favorite people are dead. My favorite socks are dirty.

I'm sad because I could be happy and when there is a possibility of happiness a strong fear seems to settle in my stomach and won't let go.

He is gentle and sweet. He asks how my day was. He cares if I'm sad. He has soft brown hair that flips up at the tips. His lips are thin and smooth.

Many times I have been with men who were too quick to assign me a role or put me in a particular space where I was regulated and watched.

I'm sure he's not perfect. Maybe he has terrible breath or what if he likes nascar or something.

What if he likes to wake up early on Saturday mornings?
What if he doesn't like that same movies as I do?

I bet he'd hold me and maybe, maybe I wouldn't mind being held by him.

And that's all I want. I want a place to rest my head. I want a life that is happy.

Sometimes I feel lonely. And then I remember that things will be ok. Because he isn't like anyone I've ever met and I'm better than I used to be.

Road

I was driving in West Virginia a year ago. I was driving at night, in a truck that only had a tape player. It was dark and I was listening to Red Hot Chili Peppers. I was smoking a cigarette. I had left right after I had taken a shower, my hair was still wet. 

I kept driving as it got darker. I wasn't sure where I was going, but I know all I had to do was make a U-turn and I'd be able to make it back home. "Home," being where I was staying while I was working for the summer. About 30 minutes into the drive I decided I wanted to buy vodka. 

It was Sunday and I didn't know even if I found vodka I wouldn't be able to buy it. 

The road was narrow and there weren't any street lights. I looked for a place to make a U-Turn. I went off the road on the right side to make sure I could make it in one go. Unfortunately the shoulder was softer than I had anticipated and the truck became stuck. 

I was literally stuck in a ditch, somewhere in West Virginia, I had no cell phone reception and it was dark. 

I waited for God. 

A police officer came by instead, he said, "You on Oxy? You drunk?"

I shook my head no. He called a tow truck that got me out of the ditch. 

He checked my license and said, "You're a long way from home, you came all this way to get stuck in a ditch?"

"I've never been stuck in a ditch before."

"Don't pull over, stay on the road ok?"

I said yes, got back in the truck and went back home. 

In those minutes before the police officer had arrived I was scared, unsure, confused. And then after the initial worry I became very calm, I knew everything would be okay. I knew I would be okay. 

I smoked a cigarette on the drive back home, I stayed on the road and I didn't get stuck again. 

Warmth

It's raining. The rain is cold, the way I like it.

I was in Arizona for a summer a  few years ago. The rain was warm. It smelled strange. One rainy evening I stood outside and I walked to the end of the street and back. My jeans were wet and my shirt clung to me. My feet slipped a little, I was wearing plastic sandals.

I spent the summer in the library and I slept with a boy for the first time.

We were studying on his bed and I fell asleep next to him.

At 5am I woke up and saw him sleeping next to me. I got up, gathered my books and left.

I have never liked spending the night.

Daydreams

We would live by the beach. Always the beach. I would have a small herb garden. I would grow thyme and rosemary. I would wear an apron and make breakfast. You would smell my hair and tell me good morning. You would make the toast and set the table.

We would sit watching the waves while we ate. After we ate we would go for a walk along the beach. Barefoot. I would ask you to walk closer to the ocean. Our feet would touch the soft sand, and then as we walked further the sand would become damper and firmer. We would walk along the shore, cold water rushing over our toes and then retreating.

I would hold your hand and tell you stories about when I was a little girl. You would bring my hand to your lips and kiss my fingertips. You would tell me about places you've traveled to and what food tastes like in France and what it's like to live Morocco.

And then I'd take my dress off and walk into the ocean and you would watch me. You would smile and join me. The water would be cold and our pulse would quicken. We would kiss.

Once we got back to our house we would take a shower. You'd pick me up and fuck me against the shower wall.

You would help me wash my hair. I would wash your back. Gently tracing your spine with my fingers.

And then we would take a nap in our bed, and wonder if we were dreaming or if this was real.

And when I'd wake up alone to the sound of traffic. I'd know, it had only been a dream. And I would ache to sleep again.

Niloc

He told me that he would ride the bus all day on the weekends. He rode the bus because he felt safe on the bus. He knew when he got home his mother would be drunk or passed out, he prayed she would be passed out in the house and not the front yard. 

He had a collection of postcards from his dad. 

Paris.

Canada.

Australia.

London. 

The same message:

"Hi, I miss you! I love you! Take care of your mom." 

It's hard to say if his dad knew the impact that the last statement had on his son. 

I guess we'll never know. 

He was a friend of a friend. When I saw him I knew I wanted him. He was shy and beautiful. We talked for hours. He was so quiet, I thought if I interrupted him he'd never talk again. So, I sat and listened to everything he said. He was gentle and kind. I wasn't ready for something so serious. I was immature and selfish. 

I was also an alcoholic. 

I would call and he would pick me up from wherever I was. He would pick me up from random houses, bars, parks and stores.

We would go back to his apartment. He would hold me while I cried about things I couldn’t articulate. He would remain quiet when I yelled and screamed at him. He would pick me up when I had fallen asleep on his doorstep. 

And then one day he said,

“I can’t keep watching you hurt yourself.”

I was so arrogant. I told him I only answered to myself. I told him a lot of stupid things. 

It was a year before I saw him again. We were at a friends house the other day and we laughed and joked, we had a few drinks and talked about movies and books and places we’ve been. And then he left suddenly and he seemed upset. After he was gone I asked a mutual friend, if he was ok. And our friend said, “He likes you. He’s happy you’re doing better. He just doesn’t trust you or himself around you.”

I smiled and nodded.  

I left after a few minutes and called him. He didn’t answer. I guess I didn’t expect he would.

I remember what it felt like to kiss him. He has these really long arms and soft skin that always felt a little clammy. Whenever he kissed me his lips would tremble. He has light brown hair with golden strands of blond hair, and when the sun hits it, it almost looks like he's glowing. 

On the drive home, I had a thought, "While I’m recovering from alcohol and drugs, he’s recovering from me." 

I cried all the way home, again.  

Later

"Later alligator."

"In a while crocodile."

It took me less than ten seconds to fall in love.

I don't know why I said it. I was late for work and walking out the door. I absentmindedly kissed his lips and  walked out the door.

And before the door shut, I heard him say, "In a while crocodile."

I didn't see his face. But I'd seen it enough to know what his expression would have been. He would have been smirking . I was walking down the steps and I mouthed the words again.

Tears welled up in my eyes. The heat of the sun warmed my face and my eyes spilled over with tears. I was walking, almost proud, with head held high. I didn't bother to wipe away the tears.

There had been many times when I had fallen out of love in seconds. Moments where I would see someone and not only become indifferent to him but also repulsed. It was something he said or a gesture he made. It could have been his mispronunciation of a word or a moment after he came, his dick still inside me. I never knew why, just that in whatever moment it was, I'd fallen out of love.

This had been the only time I had fallen in love in seconds.

Less than ten seconds. I guess like Dostoevsky says, "A moment of happiness...Isn't such a moment sufficient for the whole of man's life?"

Untitled

"Why are you crying? I think crying is a bit superfluous." 

His tone sounded more like a statement rather than a question.

"I'm crying because I'm sad." 

"What have you got to be sad about?"

"Everything."

"Nothing."

I cried harder and he left for work. 

Spring

He knew me when I didn't or maybe I changed to who he suggested I be, it was so long ago, how can I be sure. 

How can we be sure of anything anymore.

On a spring day like this I miss the way his cum felt dripping out of me onto my panties. I miss knowing who my next kiss would be from. I miss feeling the weight of his body on me. I miss the increasing dampness of his skin as he fucked me harder and harder. 

It's hard to remember what his lips felt like. I can hardly remember what his voice sounded like. 

And in many ways it feels like I was someone else entirely, maybe I was. 

Scheherazade

The first time he hits you, you’re both shocked.

It gets easier the second time, for him anyways.

After the third and fourth hit, there is a rhythm to how he’s hitting you.  After the eighth and ninth hit you know it’s not going to stop.

You’re on the ground. You wonder how you got there. He’s dragging you with your right arm, you feel your shoes slip off and the gravel rip your stockings.

“I don’t want to die.” This isn’t something you say, this is something you think.

You feel something wet on your face, it isn’t raining. It’s your own blood.

You can’t see anymore. You’re focusing on breathing.

Why can’t you just get up. You don’t hear anything, he isn’t yelling anymore.

You try to get up and he pushes you back down. It’s harder to breath and you can’t see anything. “Get up”, these are words in your mind.

My wrist is sweaty and his hand is sweaty, he loses his grip. And I jump up. I don’t make eye contact. I turn around, He grabs my dress and hair, I move anyways. He hits the back of my head, I’m on the ground again.

There is a bright light, maybe lights of a car. He pauses, I get up, I run.

I run and then I hide, belly down between bushes in a yard of a house I’ve never been to. The dirt feels cool against my skin.

Just breathe. 

I wonder what time it is. Someone comes out of the house. I don’t think they see me in the bushes they go back inside. A few minutes later a police car comes. He asks if I’ve been drinking. I try to say no, my jaw doesn’t move. I can’t make out his face. One of the cops helps me out of the bushes. They ask me more questions, when they see I can’t answer they put me in the back of the cop car. We arrive at the hospital. He asks me if I’ve been drinking I shake my head no. He asks if I am on any drugs, street or prescription, I shake my head no.

He asks if I was raped. I vomit.

Three broken fingers,

A broken jaw.

Fractured ribs.

Broken clavical.

Concussion.

Various bruises and scratches.

This is what they tell me, this is what I already know. 

When I was ten I was in a school play. I was Scheherazade. I was in a lot of scenes and I even had a monologue. After the play was over they let us keep our costumes. A lime green tank top with a multi-colored skirt, pieces of soft organza, tied together along my waist. I had gold shoes with hot pink trim. I felt special and confident. I didn't forget any of my lines. I practiced my lines with Ernie, he was small and stuttered. He wanted to be in the play, but because he stuttered when he was nervous he didn't try out. On opening night he gave me a pink carnation. When my mother asked who gave me the flower I told her everyone got one for doing a great job. 

When I got home, I pressed the flower in a book and wondered if I could wear my costume when Ernie and I got married. 

Coffee and Silver

Our first date was at a coffee shop. He had suggested the place and I was planning on drinking water or getting tea. I don't like coffee. He was already there when I arrived, we stood in line together, he offered to buy me coffee, I said yes. We dated for six months. During this time he we went to a lot of coffee shops. He would make me coffee in the morning. I had my own coffee mug in his apartment. We broke up on a Tuesday. I never picked up my coffee mug and he never knew I hated coffee.

Another boyfriend bought me silver jewelery. Silver necklaces, silver earrings, silver bracelets, silver rings with embedded precious stones, silver everything.

I don't like jewelery, I don't wear jewelery, I especially don't like silver.
When we broke up I asked if he wanted the jewelery back, he said no.

I've also pretended to be a virgin, twice.

If I were to say I didn't mean to lie, that would be a lie. I didn't lie maliciously. In the past I have lied in relationships because I wasn't sure what I wanted. I wasn't really sure what I liked. I didn't say I liked coffee to trick him, I lied because he was nice enough to buy me coffee. I didn't tell the other guy I didn't like silver because he was thoughtful enough to buy me jewelery and I wore the jewelery whenever we were together. And the first time I lied about being a virgin, was because I was ashamed I wasn't. And the second time I lied because he assumed I was a virgin, and I didn't want to disappoint him.

Relationships are difficult, I know that and you know that. Do I regret lying? Kinda. Will I lie again? Maybe.

My secret is this: if you ask if I'm lying, I'll tell you. I don't lie about lying. And some people say, that's the best thing about me.

Thanks for the inspiration Michael.

Ashes

Yesterday was Ash Wednesday, I went to mass.

I was seated next to a lady with a little boy. He was probably 6 or so. He had no respect for personal space. He had no healthy sense of boundaries. 

Being the reasonable person I am, I didn't make a fuss, I just sat quietly, trying to shrink. 

About 15 minutes into the mass, this child fell asleep on my shoulder. Now, in a Catholic Mass there is a lot of sitting down, standing up, kneeling and then repeating. I heard they do that so you won't fall asleep. Seems plausible to me. When it's time to stand, I look to the mother, she looks at me, neither of us do anything.

So, I spend the next 45 minutes or so sitting perfectly still while this child slumbers on my shoulder. His mother woke him up when it was time to approach the altar to receive ashes. He was groggy and disorientated. He looked at me and smiled, while we were in line for ashes I could hear him singing along to the hymn that was being sung. Some parts were in Latin, and he did his best to sing each word after it had been sung. 

Afterwards, while I sat in my car I cried. I cried for about 20 minutes. Then I drove home.

Gum

He asked if I wanted a piece of gum. I said no. He asked again, I said no again. When he asked a third time I gently took the gum, unwrapped it and put it in my mouth. It was double mint gum. I told him I had to go. I drove home quickly, went into my bedroom and cried harder than I've cried in ten years.

My grandmother didn't like me.

She always carried double mint gum. Maybe 3 or 5 packs at a time, neatly held in the zipper compartment of her purse. I would always ask for a piece. She would split the stick of gum in half. She would put the other half back into her purse. She would give my sister a whole stick of gum. When I didn't ask why, she would say, "Don't you want to know why you aren't getting a whole stick of gum?"

I would shrug,

she would answer, "Because ladies don't ask."

I didn't know what this meant, I was just happy to have a piece of gum, even if it wasn't a whole piece.

When my sister and I would spend the night down my grandparents house, her main complaints about me were the following:

1. I didn't eat a whole meal in one sitting. I would eat half and then play and then go back to the meal. It would take maybe two hrs for me to eat a whole meal.

2. I was afraid of the dark, I had to sleep with the lights on.

3. I liked to be tucked in and read to, I couldn't fall asleep alone.

4. I was messy.

5. I refused to have my hair put in braids or a ponytail.

My grandma concluded that I was spoiled. I would spend the evening sitting quietly in front of a cold unfinished plate while my sister ate dessert.

My grandpa loved me. He would try and neutralize the situation. I would help him in the garden. While he pruned the trees I would gather earthworms. He would tell me stories about when he was young. I remember thinking it was funny that he had ever been a little boy. I would stay up and watch black and white movies with my grandpa. I would fall asleep on the couch. And even though I wasn't allowed dessert, he would sneak me candy when my grandmother wasn't looking.

Years later when he was dying in the hospital I stayed by his side. I slept in waiting rooms, I ate in the hospital cafeteria. My grandma told my mom that it wasn't appropriate for a young lady to be unsupervised over night at a hospital.

When my grandpa died I held onto his foot.

My mom and grandma were on either side, holding his hands. My sister was sobbing and holding onto my mother. I felt the pulse in his foot quicken and then slow, and then finally stop.

Before he was in the hospital I asked him if he was ever scared when he was in WWII, he said yes. I said, "Well...what did you do when you were scared?"

he said, "I was scared, I didn't know if I could move, but I did, I was scared as hell, but I moved, because even if you're scared you have to keep going forward."

When he told me this years ago I didn't understand what he meant. Now I understand.

I can't talk about you without talking about myself. 

You are who I would have been if no one had loved me. 

I'm sorry I couldn't save you. Thank you for letting me go.

You were a storm and I was something you would have destroyed, but what a view. 

Sometimes a secret makes you feel special, even if you aren't. Even if you know you can never be. In spite of, in memory of something you gave up a long time about. 

A secret. That small smile that creeps across your mouth during the monotonous moments that occur during the day.

A secret. The little warmth between your legs when you think of a life that is very different from the one you lead. 

A secret.That hot mouth against your mouth. Another world, complete, self-sustaining. 

Whenever I see something beautiful, I stop and stare. I sort of revel in it's existence. I feel privileged to be witnessing something so beautiful, and to have been paying  enough attention to realize it's presence. I've always been like this. My instinct is to see something unique, to love it and then to be happy until it goes away.

My mother thinks this is what's wrong with me.

For my mother and sister, when they see something beautiful or unique, when they experience something enjoyable, they want to grab it, contain it and control it.

My mother says, if I knew any better I'd be married by now.

I like loving men. They are a counterpart to myself, that very unknowable, so desirable "other." I like what they write, how they talk and the noises they make. I like the way they eat and their facial expressions. I like the gait of their walk and how their posture changes in different situations. I like comparing his natural everyday voice with his whisper voice when he's on top of me. I like noticing if his snoring is completely random or if there is some underlying pattern that will reveal itself if I listen long enough. I like the way he can be surprisingly tender and vulnerable, I like that sometimes, I can make him happy.

I don't know much about relationships or being a girlfriend or being a wife or a mother. But I do know something about loving someone because they inspire you to be more than you thought possible. I know about loving someone because it's the most natural and wonderful thing you've ever done in your life. I may not have your ring on my finger or have given birth to the child you love. I am just someone who loves you and will continue to love you because you are beautiful, talented, and endlessly amazing.

She called me crying. She told me she was pregnant.

She asked me not to sleep with her boyfriend again.

There was a lot of crying and a lot of cursing. When there was a pause I told her I wasn't anything to worry about and that I would leave her family alone. 

I was supposed to meet up with him for dinner. I asked to be seated in the patio so I could smoke. I ordered a vodka on the rocks. I arrived early and before he arrived I was on my second drink. 

I told him I couldn't see him anymore, when he asked why, I told him that I had a boyfriend and I was feeling guilty for cheating on him.

"You've had a boyfriend this whole time!?"

"Yes, I know, I should have told you, I just can't do this anymore."

He got up and left. I don't know why I didn't yell at him, I don't know why I lied about having a boyfriend. 

Kiss

He had this stupid way of making everything sound like a question. It made me feel better because he never sounded like he knew anything. Everything became a chance to discover ourselves, a chance to figure something out, an opportunity to create something. So we became two explorers in a world where everything is already figured out.

He would play his guitar and I would write. He would place his head on my lap while I told him stories. He would listen to me for hours with that same expression of wonder and interest. I'd stop and blush. 

He was the only person I've ever been with who actually kissed my tears away. Gently he would brush the tears aside with his fingers and then he would press his warm lips on my cheeks, gently nibbling on my ear and then kissing down the slope of my neck. He always took his time with me, I wasn't expected to be anyone else or to know what to do, I didn't have to ask permission or wonder what he wanted. He just wanted me. If this wasn't love, this was the closest I have ever come to it. 

Women

I think sometimes when you smile a lot it almost seems like you're talking. It's the only thing people really respond to. At the end of the "conversation" when you haven't said much, but were interested in the conversation, when you've emphatically nodded your head and smiled reassuringly, they say you are a great listener. They don't even notice you didn't really contribute anything, you might have said, "yes" or "go on" but you weren't saying anything that meant anything. We can have entire relationships like this.

Whenever I feel too confident I remember I only write the word "restaurant" when I can check the spelling, because I always mess up the spelling. I also don't know anything about geography, sometimes I forget which hemisphere I live in. Sometimes I mispronounce words, this is a minefield and can happen at anytime, during any conversation. These little matters of fact leave me vulnerable and eternally humble. 

My favorite people in the world are men. I like women, but I never know what to talk with them about. A lot of women hate there ex-boyfriends, they can discriminate between different scents of candles, they watch reality television, they watch romantic comedies, they have children, they want children, they are married, they want to be married, they gossip, they talk about celebrities, they like shopping, they say one thing but mean something entirely different, they are passive aggressive, they hug, they talk about shoes, they talk about other peoples lives as if they were their own. Like when they talk about their children's achievements as their own, or their husband's money as their money. I don't get it, I don't like it. And I stay away from it. 

Sometimes I dream about having a female confidant. I imagine us going to the library and attending concerts. I think about us going running in the park and maybe buying things from an antique shop. I think about us drinking together and laughing. I imagine her helping me pick out a shade of lipstick or helping me select a vibrator. I imagine us flirting with guys at a bar. I'm sure she's out there, and maybe one day we'll meet and have a pillow fight in our panties and bras. 

Tequila

The old man in front of me was buying a bottle of tequila. The bottle was plastic and the man looked about 80 years old. He shuffled. I guess when you are that old it takes too much effort to lift your limbs. Fat people shuffle, maybe it's because it's too laboring to move in full motion. The old man had a very smooth looking face, there were wrinkles, but they didn't move. He had the same facial expression, he mumbled and didn't acknowledge anyone, not the cashier, not me, just paid attention to the change he got from his 20 dollar bill.

His face looked like a topographical map. His eyes reminded me of stones you see when you look into a river bed. Dark and glossy. I wish I would have said hello or something. 

I paid for my groceries. I forgot my recyclable bag again and I don't like using plastic bags, so I held everything in my arms. When the cashier gave me my change a dime fell. I pretended not to notice. There was a baby in a stroller who kept screaming about the dime. I pretended not to hear her, than the mother said, "Excuse me, but I think you dropped your dime." I had my arms full, if I bent down I could potentially drop everything. The woman just stood there looking at me, the cashier picked up my dime and handed it to me, I said thank you and left the store quickly. I hate disrupting the natural flow of the grocery line process. 

I hate the grocery store, but I got to see that topographical map of an old man, so I guess it was worth it. 

Night

"I fell in love with someone else."

"ok"

"I don't think I was ever in love with you."

"ok".

"Are you ok?"

"Are you sure?"

"Yes, I'm sure, are you ok?"

"Yes, I'm fine."

"I'm sorry."

"Sorry for what? I was so sure I was going to be the one to leave, to stray, but it's you. I'm actually proud of myself. I loved you as best as I could. I didn't do anything wrong. I was good."

"Yes, you didn't do anything wrong. You're good." 

"I know. Listen, I'm fine. All I want is for you to be deliriously happy, and if that's not with me, it's ok. I love you, and that isn't contingent on you loving me back or anything, it's just a fact. I only want the best for you. I've gotta go, it's late."

 

This is the way things end. Not with name calling or yelling. It's afterwards when you look for evidence. It's only when it's very quiet that you wonder, "Did he ever love me?" It's where you tell yourself, yes, yes of course he did. But there is always that doubt. That aching says, "He never loved you, he never could." And so you look for birthday cards, note cards from flowers he sent you. You study pictures with a magnifying glass. You look at your faces, yes, you are both happy, you were both in love. You sift through handwritten notes, text messages, you listen to voicemail messages. Obsessively looking for evidence that what happened was real, authentic, that it meant something. 

And then text messages get deleted, voicemails are erased. Birthday cards  and notes are discarded. Pictures are put away, out of sight. You move on, you live your little life and forget about anything involving an "us." You don't wonder what he's doing or what he's thinking, he becomes a pleasant memory. You reason things out, you reassure yourself that everything is better now, because for all practical reasons you are better off without him. You go even further, you begin to doubt if you had ever, in fact, been in love with him. You admit, that when everything was settled, those weeks following the break up, what you felt wasn't anguish or regret, what you felt was: relief. 

Sometimes, when it's been an especially rough week. When everything that could go wrong does, when you feel low, impotent, worthless. When the harshness of reality pushes you down and holds you there, helpless and pathetic, you wish, silently, that there was someone who knew you. And then you remember that you did, in a way, have someone love you. And you look at an email he wrote to you when you both thought you loved each other.

L,

I miss you so much baby. So much! I miss just being with your perfect little self. I miss your infectious laugh. I miss your pussy. I miss the taste of your asshole. I miss everything about you and us. I can't wait to reconnect with you in Shanghai, probably early tomorrow morning for you. I still dont know for sure, but I'm hoping. God, I love you so much and I would give anything to be with you right now. love u love u love u, - Anthony

Zoo Watching

I watch people during the day as if I were at a zoo. I stare and try to take photographs of them in their natural habitat. I follow zoo rules, I don't feed them or blow smoke in their faces. Sometimes they try to communicate with me, but I rarely understand them.

A person talking about their car or job or life tends to bore me. I listen with furrowed eyebrows. I nod my head according to tone and inflection, but nothing computes. 

I watch their body language, the way their hands flail when they are describing some event. The shape of their mouth, the lips stretching over their teeth. I watch the way the wind picks up strands of their hair and briefly lifts and then abandons the strand. I think about how hair is dead. I think about how some of the stars in the sky burned out years and years ago, but because of the speed of light and time and space etc, what we see as a "star" doesn't exist anymore. We think we see something, but it doesn't exist anymore, not in the way we understand existence. Existence isn't what it used to be. 

I watch the way he approaches me. His gentle tone, his friendly posture. He leans over to talk to me. I raise my eyes to meet his gaze. I watch his hands, the brief movements. The shuffling of his feet. I watch the way he licks his lips. I see the way his breath is released into the cold air and taken up in currents to the sky. I watch the skin on his neck pucker and stretch and he continues to emit unrecognizable utterances. 

I picture us on a beach. He is embarrassed that his legs aren't as tanned as mine. I laugh and tell him, no one cares about the paleness of his legs. I grab his hand to reassure him. We walk into the ocean, hands clasped, the cold water meeting the tips of our toes. The waves, meeting us, time and time again. Natural and predictive. He kisses my neck. I playfully push him away and tell him not in public. I smile coyly. He kisses my lips. We spend eternity in these minutes. Each gesture studied, each kiss refined, every breath accounted for.

He pauses, he furrows his eyebrows, he looks puzzled. Reassuringly I smile. I gently touch his arm and he continues his mutterings. 

I sit in my car quietly and smoke a cigarette. I think about the days events, what happened and what could have happened. I smile contently. I look at the glow of my cigarette burn more intense with each inhale. I turn the car on, I think to myself, "I could go anywhere." And then I drive home. 

Vows

You could have been anything, you chose to be mine.

I will love you with every beat of my heart, I will honor you with every breath that I take.

I love everything about you, your ideas, passions, complexities, inconsistencies, habits, propensities.

I love you. I accept you. My love, my heart and my soul will adore you and cherish you for the rest of my life.

Reality is a bother.

I woke up 37 minutes before my alarm was scheduled to go off. Not enough time to go back to sleep, but I didn't want to get up. I was awake, but I didn't get out of bed. I raged against my alarm clock, I pouted, I squirmed. I did not masturbate, but I thought about it briefly. I got out of bed and had to find clothes to wear, I should have ironed, but I hate ironing. I got into the shower, it was cold and I became completely awake. I hate washing my hair. I wish someone would wash my hair for me, not even in a sexual way, just in a happy helpful way. I didn't get soap in my eye but I put my shampoo in after I put my face wash on. I usually shampoo before I put my face wash on. After rinsing and washing body and hair I decided to try and masturbate in the shower, like the way they do in movies. I was naked and wet, but I didn't feel sexy at all, I felt tired and silly. I even tried to talk dirty to myself, using funny voices and I ended up having a conversation with myself about the pitfalls of direct realism. 

Untitled

"I could have been better. I'm sorry I'm broken. I should have tried harder. I will be different. I will be better. For you, I'll try."

And you cry.

Sometimes you lie and you hope this isn't one of those times.

"You are spoiled, useless, ineffective, weak, stupid."

And you cry harder.

Recovery isn't an end, it's a process. 

"How can you expect anyone to love you, to know you and to appreciate you, when you don't love, appreciate or know yourself?"

And you cover your face with you hands in shame and indignation. Looking for the words that will make everything ok. 

We always hurt the ones we love, usually we hurt ourselves first.

Vodka Quiet.

"I'm sorry I couldn't be better."

"You didn't do anything wrong."

"Then why won't you love me?"

"I tried. There isn't any reason why I shouldn't love you. I don't know what's wrong with me."

"I hate you." 

"I hope that's true. It would make tomorrow easier for you."

-----------------------------

It was quiet. It was getting quieter with each drink.
It was getting vodka quiet.

-----------------------------

"Did you ever love me? When did you love me?"

"I loved you when we would drive and you would hold my hand. I felt close with you. I loved you then."

"That's stupid, what is that? Who are you? What kind of person loves someone when they are driving!"

"You asked me, I tried to answer."

"No, no you didn't answer. You are a selfish bitch. What do you think love is? It isn't some abstract lofty idea, it isn't in any fucking book, it isn't found in anything intellectual, it's a feeling, a feeling. You still have feelings don't you? Don't answer that. I don't care. I don't care anymore. I am the best thing that will ever happen to you. You won't regret this now, but one day you will. I hope it fucking breaks your heart."

"There is nothing wrong with you."

"I know! of course I know that, I'm not the idiot. You are the idiot!"

"I know."

"You picked the perfect fucking time to tell me, I really wanted to see this movie and now I can't. Just because you aren't emotional doesn't mean you aren't feeling something. You aren't who I would ever see myself with. I'm glad it's over. You aren't even my type, I don't know why I ever asked you out in the first place."

"I'm sorry."

"No, you aren't. Don't say that. Because you aren't."

"I'm not sorry."


-------------------------------

Leaving takes a lot longer than it seems like it would.

-------------------------------

"Is this why you brought your own car? You knew this whole time you were going to pull this shit?"

"Yes."

"You are a fucking bitch."

"I'm leaving."

"You're not going to say anything else? Just leave?"

"Yes. I stopped having anything to say to you months ago. You just didn't notice."

"So fucking profound! You really think you're something special don't you? You're not different, you aren't special, you aren't "above" anything. What are you even doing with your life? You have no direction, nothing. You aren't anything, you're a fucking loser. And you know it."

"Bye. Take care."

----------------------

Vodka quiet.

I curl up on the couch. I play music loudly and get very drunk.


I'm not much, but I'm all I've got.

Daydreams

His mother killed herself after he was born.

She was the result of a failed abortion.

Needless to say, the fetal position was never very consoling to either of them.

He played Gymnopedie No.1 and she cried. It was the collection of subtle movements that caught her breath, held her captive, frightened and excited her all at once.

She wrote him letters after he went to sleep and slipped them in his jacket pocket that was hung neatly on the door, so he wouldn't forget it when he left in the morning.

He read the notes as he took the morning train to work.

And during the day she thought of all the lovely parakeets they would own over the years. She brushed her hair and named them one by one. She walked around the lake and thought of the children they would have. A boy, maybe a girl - maybe both. She smiled, what a thought. How much happiness could one heart contain.

"Can we atleast be friends?"

"We were never friends."

I was just attractive enough to make things complicated.

I would say I'm barely attractive.

Cute but not beautiful.

I always had a very good way of speaking to people.
A way that made them feel safe.
A way that made them care for me.

I was the puppy you fed at night.
The track you let play through because it isn't horrible and you know the next track is better.
The body that you held closest for a moment.


The blurry eyed intensity at 4 am was always my best look.


I am the one you have until you get married to someone else.

untitled

"Do you think if I wanted you for my own, I would encourage you to fuck other men?"

"No, I guess not. So you wouldn't date me, but you would fuck me?"

"Of course I would fuck you. I dream about fucking you, kissing you, touching you."




When I was in grade school I wrote a note to Christian. I put it on his desk after lunch. The note said:

I like you. If you like me, meet me by the third tree, the tree without any leaves, in the playground.

At 2:15 p.m. I rushed to the tree. I stood under the tree quietly and waited for him to like me.

He never showed up.

In my mind I thought of a million reasons why he hadn't shown up. And finally settled on the notion that he had never received the note. If he had read my note, he would have shown up. I was convinced.


I have never been comfortable with rejection.


So I live in my dream world. I make up scenarios and fantasies. I pretend not to want, not to need, not to feel too much, not to ask anything, expecting nothing.

The truth is, my heart is broken. There is nothing that can change that. No one that can fix it.

I will go on falling in love from a distance, where it is in my control. I will continue having sex with men I don't love or particularly like.




When I was 7 I had a fish, I prepared the fish tank, decorated the fish environment, named the fish, made a place on my shelf where I could see the fish. One day the fish tank was missing. I asked my mother what happened to it. She told me she had removed the tank a week earlier. When I asked her why, she said, because the fish had died.

Biography of a different kind

I hold my breath, I try to think of something else. The doctor says it’s not pain, only pressure.

“You’re going to feel a lot of pressure…”

And I'm thinking about when I stayed in the hospital with my grandfather. I met his nurses and doctors. 

In that hospital room I made up songs and drew pictures. The hospital smell clung to my clothes. And seeped into my skin.

It was in these moments, I told my grandfather not to die. With the sincere honesty of a child I told him,

“You can’t die, not yet, you have to wait until I do something great.”

And with a gesture I didn’t fully understand, he held my hand and smiled.

That complete acceptance, it’s rare.

This is pain, the agony and finality of loss.

He had grown up during the depression. He began working when he was 6 years old selling newspapers and roofing. His father had left his mother with 7 children. He survived 2 wars. When my mom told him she was thinking of adopting a baby, he looked at her and said, "Bring her home."

For 6 months I had no name.

The nurses called me “The Little Princess”. The doctors didn’t think I would survive.

Don’t waste a name on something that won’t live.

I was the princess of a kingdom of the weak and the wounded.

The heiress to a fortune of misfortune.

My lungs breathed in spite of, my heart pumped in urgency.

They tell me, that when he saw me for the first time, he held picked up my hand and said,

“She’s got a lot of growing to do.”

There are many things that are incomplete and eroded in my memories.

He named me Lola, because I was too small for a longer name.