Storytime... (KISS)

...the twisted little way I have of writing...

Thursday, May 17, 2007

Socially Awkward - the Descent

To hell with my pride, let it fall from this cliff. I really do enjoy the feeling of descent. Don't we all. That falling feeling, that failing feeling. It's nice to know that for a moment in your life you are untouchable, weightless and gloriously beautiful as nothin in the world can stop you and make you have to again compete, strain to climb and work to survive. Of course it all ends in death anyway, why not a splat at the bottom of a gloriously free fall? Why not enjoy your last few moments in this hell. Isn't that what hell's all about anyway... the sins you enjoyed while you were alive?
So yes, to hell with it all, and my pride too. I was proud once. Once. I will never forget the beating I got from all the better-than-yous out there. To be honest, if you ever want a reality check, be proud of something, That'll teach ya. Here I am, sober enough to remember, drunk enough to tell you that life without a vice is hell indeed.
I remember the beating I got trying to be the best, trying to compete, trying my damndest, trying, just trying. And where did it ever get me? Where did it ever get you? No, it's not, really not about what you know, it's who thinks you know what; it's who you know that counts. I had a friend tell me once not to talk to someone. I talked to her and realized later in life that he really only wanted to keep me under his wing, under his control. And isn't that the way of the world? Everyone wants to control things. Everyone wants to be in control, to keep everyone else under control. Isn't that why we have war and pestilence?
Yeah, I'll pass, thank you. Just leave me to this bottle of jack, this lovely little disillusionment I like to call sobriety, this haze I choose to live my life in. I wish I knew how to have company in this mess. I wish I had someone here to fall with me. It would be nice to have a friend to share things with.
I used to have that you know. 'Til you came along. I had a friend I could give everything to and he'd appreciate it. He appreciated me. I wonder if he still knows I exist? No, you're right, probably not. I'm not all that great of a friend anymore. Hell I hardly talk to anyone, what makes you, or for that matter me, what makes me think I'd have a friend. Drunk little socially awkward freak that I am.
So I'll sit here and sip my beer. I've got a few left to go before I'm too drunk to be responsible for my actions. I really have to cut down on sleep too, if you get enough of it, supposedly, they think you are capable of functioning. Really though, I don't want to. Too much hassle, too much to worry about. I'd rather spiral down, my clumsy little free-fall, into an oblivion. It's fun in the dark and cold weightless breeze. I think I'll stay here as long as I can. Just please, do me a favour. Don't try to help me. Don't bother me with memories of the reason why I prefer it here. I'd rather joy in my decent. My lonely, cold, pointless, gives you a sinking feeling in the pit of your stomach until you realize that's just the beer you had for lunch coming back for a second bow, painless little no-one-matters when you really don't care; descent into oblivion. Honest, I want my death to be a quick one. Hopefully soon.

Tuesday, May 08, 2007

You have me still.

Go on; show an interest in someone else. You never seem to like anyone else but yourself.

Waiting here, it's two thirteen Am.; I wonder what I'm doing. You said you were going to visit your mother. That's the fifth time this week! I called her last night; she asked how you were doing. Now I don't like to accuse but I think there's something I should be afraid of. Two nights now you've spent away. "She's really going through a tough time." you say. I haven't slept in three days and I can't concentrate on anything.
The blank look in the mirror and I know there are words on the bottle in my hand. I can't see them. I can't see them to read them. Heh, I'm sure it's a bottle, sort of sure. I can't tell if it's a prescription bottle or another kind of bottle. But my brain remembers the word for the container is 'bottle.' I'll trust my brain on that one. But I squint to see what the letters say. This letter looks like a boot. A line up, a line down, about to Kick something. The boot is, I think the trash-can just went flying.
My boss keeps asking me what's on my mind and I really just don't know. You stopped kissing me when you come home. Am I just imagining it? I don't believe what every voice in my head tell me to.
The magnolia tree in the back-yard has begun to bloom; I remember our first year here. I thought it was an ugly tree, insisted you cut it down and plant something with big pretty flowers. The day you rented a chain-saw I ran out to stop you from cutting down such a beautiful tree. We laughed about that. I have never liked the smell of it, but I remember you and the tree and I betcha I can climb to the top just now. Where the birds nest is made of twigs and dryer-lint.
The carpet beneath my feet grinds into my heels and I've already gotten numb to the pain of it. Sitting here pulling petals off the highest Magnolia. The last rose you brought me is dead. I knew I should have dried it. I can't think of anything but the smell you had on you. It was something like a flower, but nothing like a flower-shop.
Maybe she's just a friend of yours. Hell, I have friends I call "mom." I'm sure that's all it is. A friend you call your mom who's going through a rough time. They need you now more than I do. Besides I haven't told you I started drinking again. I haven't had the chance to tell you about the car-accident. You haven't been around enough to notice the cut on my leg.
It was a bloody mess then, and to be honest with you I have no idea where all that glass came from. I remember it was clear and covered in red and it reminded me of the marbleized stained glass they have in old churches. Where the colour becomes part of the glass, not just something on the glass. You didn't notice the stain on the carpet from the foot-print I left. I cleaned everything, forgot to check the bottom of my foot.
You will. You'll be back to me soon. I know you will. Love. Trust. What we have can't possibly be gone.
You have me still, paralized with fear, I'm waiting for you to come home because you have to. If I move, if I move on, you won't come home. I have to be still and wait. Can't eat, can't sleep. Just stay still. just wait.
We aren't over. If it were like that, you'd let me know. No. I trust you. I trust you, don't I?

Friday, May 04, 2007


Wasting away in a home I no longer know
Needing the devine silence and the snow.
Slow drift of summer of fog banks
Of anything sensual, I need.
I feel you on my lips and sigh,
I sense the deeds, the withering, the smell.
I know no apathy from grinding.
I fell from your grasp to this plague.
Words of stone unheard, thrown dead-blow
Toucheing oblivion. And don't you care?
But wait with me sweet bloody soul,
Wash away these burdened hands.
Cast me a few dead alliances,
Pull me through this needle's eye.
Grant yourself a moment to float to softly float
To land on your feet. And to cry.
Shoulders unknowing drop with pain,
Wanting, unwanted; careful, uncaring
Dancing away on pillars like wings
This wanton, cheuvinist grace.
And I needed the peaceful fields of mind,
And you needed the noise and the frey.
Rain falling upon blinded skin
Of faces and graces and wasting I laugh
Smiling through the storm so far away.
Consequently, you solve all my problems.
Descretely now, let them consume.
Shaking and naked before you,
This microcosm of a world, our love.
Smooth and slow and soften the blow,
Deaden the senses and then take this hand,
Of this woman, this soul, this body
Limp and gone.

What happened?

When I think of you I whimper. It's definently a whimper. I can't cry anymore when I see you lying there on the floor or when you're passed out drunk, or when you're so sick you can't feel the blood trickeling down your face. I used to wince when I had to give you stitches. It hurt me, the thought of hurting you. And there you lye, like a dead dog, scratching your nose against the carpet, another long night of nothing you can remember. Let me remind you of what happened.

"You know I care right?"
"Yeah." You said smiling back at me.
Yeah is right. It wasn't long before you were getting High, having a grand old time. We were cruising from bar to bar, making fools of ourselves. I can't drink as much as you. I cut myself off early. Always have, always will. But you. You drink. You drank. You were drunk. And you drank some more. Then you hit the window. Then you hit the road. Then you hit some guy. Then you turned to me. Yeah, of course I cleaned it all up. It doesn't matter how. Don't be concerned about that. Just smile and thank me. Remember later, when I need a favour, that I did you yet another favour. After that we went to a friend's house. Do you remember whose? Do you remember that girl, the one we both love? The one who hates me. The one who tried to stab me. Do you remember what she did when she saw you? Yeah that's right, she smiled and started running up to you. And then what she did when she saw me... Do you remember her tackling me and punching me? We hit the ground. She hit the ground. I hit a rock. Don't worry about the bruise. Her and I have a temporary understanding. You hear me? Don't you dare concern your hung-over little head about what happened to me. No. I'm fine.
Do you remember what she gave you? I don't either. But I know what you're like when you're on speed, when you're drunk and on speed. When you wake up to that killer feeling in the pit of your stomach to realize you never slept at all. I know you didn't sleep. You blacked out, but you didn't sleep. No really. Trust me, I followed you all around all night. You know I'll never get sleep if you keep this up. Concerned? No, don't you concern yourself about pretty little ol' me. I can handle myself. I can handle you. I've been doing this for years. Haven't I? Or wait... how long has it been?...
Oh never mind that... Do you remember walking up the stairs. You tripped on that little divet, the one where you broke the stairs last time. Yes I know you don't remember that. That was a few nights ago and you haven't been off it yet. Get off of me. I don't want you to touch me now. No I didn't want you to touch me then either. Oh sure, remember that. Remember me rejecting you. Putting you to bed and sitting on the floor. Do you remember how many times you got up? 47 times the first hour. you pace the floor a lot when you're on speed. That's part of the reason why I hate that woman, she knows what it does to you. She knows it keeps you awake. She knows it keeps me awake. Bitch. Oh no, not at all. You know I don't really mean it. Yes I love her too, it's just that she's so frustruating. Constantly convinced that I want to steal you from her. You're not even hers. Come to think of it, how many times have I told her she can have you? I lost count too.
Do you remember going to the porch. I've learned to follow you everywhere. Bathroom, cellar, out to the driveway. The porch is relatively safe. Only a 20 foot drop. Yeah. Do you remember that? Didn't think you would. Did you cry? No. No you didn't. Did it hurt you dear? You know I still wonder if things hurt when you're that messed up. But I've gotten used to the idea. No! Don't touch your stitches, I'm sure they're tender.

No. I really never could cry when I saw you like this. It used to bother me a lot more than it does now, but I would suck it up. I'd ignore how I felt for your sake. You needed my help. You've always needed someone's help. I'm the only one who ever gave it to you, who ever would, who still does. The only one.
Why... I can't help whimpering when I think it to myself. I want to ask it, never can get it out as anything more than a whimper. But still I want to ask it: Why do you do this to us?
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