You're a Movie Part II

I loved to play with camcorders.
It was the act of creating something permanent, something that could outlast me and the wishy-washy attitude I carried around with me like a fashionable handbag.
I’d set them up in random areas around the house. Then I waited to see how long it would take for people to find them, and what shots I could get before I had to take them down. My brothers would complain loudly to our parents when they discovered that I’d ‘accidentally’ taped parts of their experimentations with girls.
Film was my form of adolescent rebellion.
I kept it toned down, though, because as girl, I wasn’t supposed to have a large presence.
The camcorder is the perfect woman. She’s soft and compact and never speaks. She’s silent, as she listens to the world around her and takes note of everything that happens.
The dutiful, perfect wife.
And film was my lover until I got married at nineteen.
Now I sit back and watch the memories as they play over and over again on the small television screen in the dark.
I did something stupid and Theo forgave me, though Krista wasn’t as gentle. I watch my mistakes over and over with a dulled passion for justice.
It was stupid to try and attempt to keep those feelings of mine hidden, but I did and I tried to become a camcorder. The perfect woman for Theo when we got married.
Theo was a crystal statue’s lover as he touched me tenderly as to not cause me to shatter. He was too gentle as his presence slowly ingrained into and over my flesh. I loved the fact that eventually the only thing trapped in his vision was my reflection.
I was in love with Theo, there’s no question about that. I loved being near him, and the way we were together. Sometimes I pull out his tapes from their space under the stairs and watch them, trying to imagine that he’s still alive and with me, as opposed to lying in the graveyard up the hill. That’s the only way I can physically meet him now. When I go up the hill once a day and spread flowers across his tombstone.
I was in love with Theo, and he was in love with me, yet it was never enough.
It was never enough, but I could always hide that desire underneath the skin of a bubbling mountain, ready to explode. Krista and Theo left before my alarm could go off, though.
The one clip I watch over and over is the moment I let myself fall into hell. When I leaned over and stole a kiss from Krista while Theo was watching.

You're a Movie Part I

You’re a movie
as the camera rolls
and quakes beneath the fear
of failing.

Wounded

I suck back the blood
and try to heal the wounds,
try to paste over the scars that
burn red, struggle pink and shudder
in the hot element of sinister design.
I long to touch the fog, taste
the sugar of the glass and peel the sticky shell
of the music off my pale skin, in hopes
of a small, round little glitter, glimmer and shine
of a greeting among familiar faces
I still wish
for a smile perched upon the wing of
lost movement in motion, blue heather
on the hilltops, gray ice within the
shallow hidden heart I carry clutched to me,
and black, faded ecstasy on the stairs.

I can only feel the red though.

Lover Part II

The room was dark, like all of them were. He couldn’t remember the name of the hotel he was in. He never could.
There was no heat in the room, and she’d left the window slightly open from last night. She’d been lighting candles left and right, claiming it was romantic, so they’d had to leave the window open as to not asphyxiate.
She was dead to the world as he slowly slid out of bed. He headed toward the cheap shower that the hotel had tacked onto their rooms. The bathroom was small and designed with only one purpose. He turned on the water and shut the door behind him as he stepped in.
She was awake by the time he finished. He smiled the same smile he always used.
“You have to go?” she asked.
“Yes, I’m sorry.”
“That’s fine.” She rolled herself out and into alignment with the floor. She smiled. “It was good. I’ll see you again next week. Here’s your payment.”
He took the money she offered him, tucking it into his pants pocket before turning to get dressed.
“Wednesday again?” he asked.
“Make it Thursday. I’ve got a meeting on Wednesday.”
She stood up and walked to the shower, not bothering with clothes or any form of modesty. The door shut behind her, and he finished getting dressed.
Her purse lay on the ground near the door. He bent down and quietly opened her wallet, removing a small amount of cash. So small she wouldn’t notice.
Once the night was over, he would no longer be her lover, and she had to wait for next week.
He left her in the shower, like he always did. She knew better than to expect anything more.

Lover Part I

I just want to fall
headfirst into
a collapsible image of
silken white sheets
as they tangle around the body
in their forgotten erotic
desire.

summer is coming

summer is coming.
i can feel the soft ache of maturation,
when time ripens, splitting open
the sides of my lungs as i stretch
my spine back into the green of the earth,
spread my arms out and hook my fingers
beneath the edge of this moment,
breathing shallow, my eyes closed
as i swallow softly in an attempt
to retain my balance.

summer is coming.
and i will dance at her wedding,
plough her fields, kill
her babies and muck the stalls of her farm,
working on my hands and knees
until the ache in my bones fades
to an unnoticible level of pain
as the chill of the night and empty money
begin their slow invasion and start
their colonization of the expansive vision
of my future.

summer is coming,
the span of her heart counted
upon the weght of my wishes,
until i can stand her no longer,
my knuckles bloody with bleach,
my skin pale beneath the lines of my clothes
that are stained with paint,
and i no longer attempt to cry
when i feel her nails along my spine
and hear the crunch of when she removes bone.

summer is coming.
and i'll bleed my way empty into fall,
the nights stretching open
along the edge of my wounds,
the corners of the bills i've earned slowly
curling upwards on the vine,
my body now broken, my mind empty
and waiting for another year of planting
fresh ideas in the garden of academics.

Carry Your Wings

I carry your wings with me. Not with joy and happiness, to be given freely. I carry them broken, for I ripped them off your back.
If I cannot carry your heart with me, let me carry your hate. For if you curse and scream at me, I’ll at least know that you feel something for me. If I cannot make you mine, let me make you no one’s. Let me place you in a glass jar and hear you pound against it.
I carry your ashes with me. Your earthly remains after you have grown still. They grow heavy in their jar, growing bigger, almost forcing me to drop it.
But most of all, I carry your screaming laughter with me, a constant reminder of what you wouldn’t give me.
I watched from the inside while you danced upon the grass, running up the hill to sit with the dead among their gravestones. You ripped a butterfly’s wings apart and let the wind carry them into my face, letting them dance before my eyes.
I carry your tears with me, willingly, because you cried so hard for what I had become.
I carry nothing with me, for you are already gone.