In bed all day. There’s a huge city out there, but the planes and the helicopters don’t faze me. The ambulance and the gunshots don’t faze me. It’s like a thunderous concerto in the middle of town. Unapologetic buildings looking at me with laser green eyes and dearth. I want the noise to linger but I want this hole to fill up.
Mud trails on my hardwood floor from adventures on freeway bridges on rainy California days, which don’t come often but leave my boots in check. A 1949 diner on the corner of some famous street helps me, so I can give simple directions to friends who don’t oft visit.
Turn here and when you see a decrepit hotel, I live next door. Call me and I’ll come and let you in or you can jump the fence. Bring beer.
Where are they at 3 a.m.? I’m good when I can provide shelter. I’m good when I’m sad about the same things you’re sad about, and we talk endlessly about how alike we are and how the universe sent us on missions at the same time, and we’re kindred fucking spirits in this world that’s not so big but small, but is slowly fading, and you promised to send me a plane ticket to wherever you’re at. You were such a good friend.
I hate to be that girl you know, the smiling girl, the one you talk to like a small child in some crib. Your sympathy makes her nervy cause why would you stick around if not to feel better about yourself?
You want my kind words and my endless chatter; you want my cold beer and my soft bed. I think back to when I hadn’t bled in years, thought I was perhaps carrying some slow mounting fetus inside me. But when I did, it was in the middle of my high school graduation and I got up and walked across the field. I smoked a joint on the way home and burned my cunt with lighters and hoped that one day someone would love me regardless of these things.
The X-ACTO knife was new, had bought it at some random art supply store in Long Beach and made sure I had lots of extra blades cause it was going to be a long night. I had finished reading four books in two days and journals were piled on the floor, full of meth words cause I wanted to be skinny and beautiful and scarred, because boys like that, right? Boys like fractured girls they can relate to, right? That’s until they find another one more beautiful and less scarred, but more scared and more willing to be set loose like some caged animal. I’d just stand there, closing the door and making my bed without listening to you or to me.
So I heard that you liked me and for the most part I could learn to like anyone. For the most part I can love as long as I was loved or at least told I was loved because love was such an unusual and exquisite thing.
I’d stay indoors all summer and wait for the telephone to ring. I sat on that inflatable purple chair I stabbed when you never called. I waited for those lights to flicker and for your voice to tell me to meet you in the corner of Love St. and Sugar Blvd., but you never called, since you’re a coward. They were all such cowards.
My skin got lighter in those months and I hoped that by some sort of miracle my brown eyes would turn green. Pretty light eyes to look at while you’re on top of me. Put your hoodie on and cover your face, he’d say, since he didn’t want to remember whose pussy it was that he was licking.
I did it cause why not, at least he was licking it and though I wanted it to be my mouth wide open swallowing his tongue, I’d settle for a tongue lashing at my clit. I’d take love however it appeared, like a ghost, for I’m superstitious and I believe in pseudoscience until I get my grubby hands on Carl Sagan and I start to really question my sad existence and the role I was put here to play and I realize I was never casted.
Friends danced with me as ash hit the floor from a Pall Mall soaked with spit on the side of my mouth while corner houses hid threesomes and adopted mothers banged on doors asking, no, demanding to take her son’s dick out of my mouth, us laughing. Divots on cunts and maps on arms make for fun conversation. But, childhood wasn’t always so fine.
Sometimes there were days of floor mattress naps and endless bowls of noodles happily slithering down my throat and parrots brought home in poked brown bags, cages on mango trees and birds flying lazily screaming my name so I wouldn’t forget it. There were planes in the afternoon taking sister away and cousin away until I went away from matchbook houses and volcano hikes.
There was Walter, who cried when I left but never wrote. There were so many men coming and going as if I meant something. There was the couple who showered me till I cried blanks and fucked me.
Maybe that’s when the sleepless nights began, that’s when I’d coddle my life-sized dolls between my legs. Maybe it was then when I’d lie awake for fingers to stretch over my panties, dark covers hiding some sort of jackal smile while my heart pumped through my neck.
It was Christmas or Summer? It was a day, or night rather, and the folks were in the other room, and you were pretending to be asleep and I was trying so hard to keep my eyes closed as your sloppy little fingers made their way into my slit, and I was wet then as anticipation does that to me.
Then it changes, and it’s me after school on some hard bed in some dusty corner of the dusty house and I’m naked and wet from a shower and once again, I’m under covers and his hands are sliding through damp sheets and I’m fading, hurts less that way.
My mouth pried open but not with fingers and he slides in and out, or out and in and I can only pretend to sleep cause if I wake up it’s real.
Damn insomnia. Traffic is free self-hypnosis, and the white noise lulls.
Now the city brings with it delicious smells down my hallway and a man in my bed who loves me, tells me to love him forever, I will baby, I will. When he wasn’t here it was harder than it seemed. It was hard to inhale 40 cigarettes and down three bottles of wine and pretend that my writing made any sense, but it did. Why edit? It just wastes the time you could be using to write some more.
He used to call it the “poor man’s ocean”, as we drank cheap beer and smoked cheaper weed and the rain poured and he played old blues albums cause he knew I was born old, and he strummed his cheap guitar as if he knew how and serenaded me with songs that meant he had to try. Man did he try, he would repeat chords till he got them right. He was blind and drunk and the rain made me lose interest in the notes, so paying attention came easy.
Then the ritual would start, after all the philosophical talk would start to melt, and I’d pee out all the beer and I was left with a sweet residue of maltose and smoke which added to the violent hours that followed. We’d fuck. I say violent but I mean love. I say love but I mean time passed. Not wasted. I’ve done exactly what was right for the moment and regrets are useless when you’re still alive.
This man in my bed though, he’s insane. He’s full of love and he can’t help but tell me how much of it he has for me in his sleep, wakes up eyes closed and slides his tongue down my throat and whispers it into my mouth.
A sort of calm has hit me, and here I go blaming Pluto again since blaming myself is out of the question. I was told the other day that I look 25 years old. I giggled. I suppose my pigtail braids, knee-high socks and army backpack can throw anyone off. But it’s my uniform; I want to pretend I know less than I do. Baby doll whore slut, with a penchant for porn and stuffed animals.
Helps the sex.
When I dream it’s either of my friend and I fisting an ex-boyfriend over some observatory staircase rail or of tidal waves coming to an iconic stop right above me.
I’d like to think that they mean something, that my psyche is shifting for some great cosmic change; but there goes that selfish human tendency to indulge in such drudgery. I always like thinking I’m way more important than I am.
I bleed on his hands cause he tells me to. He doesn’t mind my stink, he needs it, and sonnets are made in my name by his nimble fingers plucking out some tune when I’m not there.
He sneers at my veganism, he knows it won’t last. Just like that whole me drawing sad animals was just a fucking phase. Now I just can’t take my life too seriously because everything that’s happened, didn’t.
My pussy’s as dry as the Sahara cause of these fucking antibiotics. The online forum says that doxycycline hyclate makes you suffer from:
Rapid heart palpitations
Bloated gut/ possible yeast infection
I walk on streets usually wiping away tears that appear without qualms, damn things don’t quit. Even when I’m getting fucked from behind they come, sometimes right along with me. I want to plant phallic vegetables to make salads with, to rub against my cunt and serve guests, my only guest, this man beside me.
The one who calls me an asshole when I wake up mad at him for the dreams I had involving him. The one who plucks out my stray hairs and pops my blackheads, the one who goes down on me while I bleed and tells me how beautiful I look when he’s inside me.
The first man I’ve ever been with, since the rest were boys.
The one who when we fight, holds my hand and kisses me, pissed that I can’t see I’m his world.
Now that he’s so near I can’t help but think that perhaps the availability will drive us apart.
I like lists.
I prefer life being lived in list form. Lists make sense and it makes day-to-day living tolerable. So we made a list. A list of things to have underway before we get married. It’s a semi-short list, but now I just want to scratch things off so he can be mine legally.