The keyboard is at the very least, unforgiving. It doesn't have much give at all. In fact hates the life inside your fingertips, it is jealous. If you're not careful you're gonna write yourself into a corner...
Her mother had a heart that served as a trophy case for award winning meth addicts. I couldn't blame her for how she turned out but I sure would love to shoot the scientist that figured out the connection between genealogy and behavioral patterns. Her trust fund is nothing more than a series of amateur nights in Florida strip clubs and an alcohol tolerance like you wouldn't believe. She is a prizefighter past her prime who just wont get out of the ring because its the only thing shes ever known.
You're the young buck in fuck me red gloves laced tight, grinning just before the bell in the first round. Because you know how the odds stack up. because you know that its just a matter of being faster and hitting harder. You are a word smith- imagine the bedside manner of this spin doctor. "Sometimes if things are going right you just need to lower your standards". Its last call for a shot of conscience...
You remind me of the way things went before all of this.
My wrists are black and blue from bumping the edge of the table next to the keyboard like a punching bag. I'm sorry just that’s the only way I know how to get this out. consider it closer to preheating the oven for when I drag the pen across my skin and spill the ink. My eyes black and trembling, sinking like stones.
Her hands hold my head back once an hour as I throw up in the sink. The front of the stereo lights up “hello” when it turns on, it’s the only conversation in the room. Every night the alarm goes off at last call reminding me. I leave the house just in time to meet her out in front of the closed bar. Neon lights set free as they are shut off, they now go to sleep without a purpose.
We own the edge of the street. I had concerns but they’re wearing off in the moonlight. I tell her I love the angle her hair takes in the shadows stretched across the street, cars plowing through the silhouettes of our torsos. Shes not impressed. I follow it up by telling her how she seems so L.A., she thanks me, though I never meant it to be a compliment.
Her eyelashes are black and long- they seem to be the stitching around her eyes, holding all the fabric that is her together. I fight the urge to pull one and watch her unravel like an old sweater. I chew swallowables just to get them in my bloodstream faster. I skip the cell phone and just knock on her door just to get her in my bloodstream faster. I apologize for remembering everything out of order but my mind never was too linear. My head feels full of perfumed air and disinfectant spray. It feels like its been blown up with air but not floating more with an air heavier than the earth’s atmosphere and rolling slowly down the street.
My head is swimming in milligram doses. Detached, maybe this is what it feels like to be her, thinking of me. My last thoughts are of leaves floating in an abandoned pool in autumn. Strange. The way their stems move like fish. My pupils are fucking collossal, and if you could read them they’d be like the sign on a storefront “I’m sorry I have stepped away for awhile”.
Close the lid of the computer and lay back my head on the pillow blackened by your mascara. There’s people on TV a half a world away that are being blown up for trying to vote and I am complaining when we have diet soda instead of regular at the Brickhouse. You probably don’t even remember what the Brickhouse is, or thinking to yourself.."when did he switch to regular coke," but that’s just proof that you’re focusing on the wrong part of that sentence. I'm skidding my shoe along the sidewalk, you’re telling me about your day- only I stopped caring about your days about a month ago.
I'm wearing your scarf cause I love the way it smells, the weather definitely isn’t calling for it, but it makes my memory feel comfortable. I'm always trying to please my memory lately so it stops running off on me. Stop at the corner. We both have our hoods up, I tug yours towards my face. our eyes should always be this close(d), to this day I have never written a word about your lips just because I could never find ones that they are deserving of.... and I'm not one for breaking habits, so I wont now.
And we both know that this isn’t gonna make any sense when I read it in the morning anyway.
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