body like mine wears out fast.

kissing other lips, but none as sweet as yours. eyes wise, wide open. overlarge teeth--mouth too small, tongue too wide. I am cataloguing all of me, bit by bit, compartmentalizing myself. placing my self, myself into boxes. (what comprises the self? what do you mean by the soul? what goes in, what stays out. what goes in stays out.) first goes the shining idealism, the words which keep me calm at night. the english language. all of the books that have sustained me. next to go is my memory of you, your shirts and your mouth and your hands. your fingers, too short, hands soft and warm: I will never need these again. mo memory of this will serve me as well as the real thing. in a different box is the thought of being unloved and lonely, a time when I was so selfish I forgot to let you breathe. that box gets my hatred, my bitterness, my fondness for another. the fourth box holds my music. this box is so fragile, handled with such care because it was not something I held myself for very long. the contents are slippery, shatter easily, quick to scratch. they can't hold themselves together as easily as my words, don't function as well without the beating of my heart. words stand alone, battered from sixteen going on seventeen years of use. words are something my own and all the same belonging to no one. music is held too close to me to be treated with the same lack of care in its handling. four boxes filled, carefully, with all of me, placed outside myself. "for rent" says the shell of what's left; conversation comes slow when only one party really exists. no one wants to hear about your day, so only ask about theirs. you can keep everyone happy if the focus isn't on you. no one needs to know how sick you're getting. what they don't know will only kill you.


god damn I am like king of the emo bitches. wtf.

plus juste que tu mérites
une main contre une main,
des dents contre ma peau
quand tu ne me repondre,
est-ce a cause de moi?
des mains oisives sont les ateliers du Diable
tes mains ne sont jamais oisives
oiseaus
la confusion--une affaire de les lettres
une affaire comme tes mains
négligeable
(marie carie--la maladie ou la medecin?
je les falsifie, mais avec d'entraînement...)
ai-je faire croire tes mains?

une excersise

The slant of your teeth, the way you open your mouth to speak.

You spoke,
heartbroken, heady hymns of heavy hums.
When you spoke,
I went to kiss you
gentle brush of lips.
Mine on yours.
The last time
I felt this
was not with someone
as
shining
as
you.
(You opened your eyes...)
You opened your mouth,
watched as truth spilled out.
I overflowed with hope,
beamed at the chance to catch it
by chance,
would you listen to me cry?
Could you help me peoplewatch?
Can we stay around each other for hours,
not speaking
but not kissing either?
Could you go without it?

I cannot help but compare you to her, love. Long legs, short bodies. Stretched out hearts. Eyes as wide as I. I cannot bear to attach you to her in my mind, for fear that you will become as she was. I apologize to both of you, in advance, in hindsight, for hiding you away in secret places, especially when they weren't where you wanted to be. (even my hindsight falls short of twenty-twenty.) I want to waltz with you. I want to place my hands on your hips and feel something not quite unrequited. I want you to break my heart.

1056. It is not nice to be around me.
1057. It is not wise to be around me.
1058. It is not safe to be around me.
and thus it progresses. quiet quiet. it's too late to expect goodness from this soul.

one in the morning and i'm yearning
full mouths are for yawning
empty hands for drawing
half-eaten hearts for scorning

two in the morning i'm tired
walking the tightrope electric, inspired
insipid incognizant liars
quagmires, sticky situations where I'm always trapped

three in the morning I hope I'm dreaming
screaming,
leaning too far, picturing your eyes gleaming
i'm fleeing
but i hope you'll figure out that I always get what I want.

goosebumps
my skin looks at me, says,
"this isn't art,"
says,
"you miss him too much,"
says,
"i'll miss you so much."

hairs on my chest stand up stand erect waiting for me to fall
banking on my sleep
but sleep is for the weak,
for the week
and it's still maybe the weekend
sleep is for when i work, when i function
when for every you there is only one me
y's and x's
exes and ohs

xoxoxoxoxoxo

sleep is for when i'm _____.
what's a five letter word for delirious?
what's a five letter word for joy?

This song always makes me cry.

I insist on listening to it over and over again, though, because I'm ridiculous. The three of them did a really good job of this, for an unprofessional performance of the song for a class.

I love the concept of this video. Various people were interviewed and it was then animated in the zoo. I love it. The jaguar is, of course, my favorite--"I need-a the space!" Nick Park is a genius. The highlight is when the smallest polar bear asks if her father enjoys lion steak as well as regular steak; this is a clear conclusion for a small child who had perceived the conversation as being strictly about the zoo, but an embarassing moment for her mother (who truly has no right to be embarassed, because she has trouble making her point or even forming a sentence when she tries to assert that animals should be confined in the zoo--"I think it's much better to be in, um...bars, because, um..." at about 2:56).

A while ago I lost all of my Meg & Dia, but I have (some of) it back! The Great Computer Crash of 2007 and the Second, Smaller Loss of Data of 2008 continue to thwart me, even months after they occured. >[ life.

My dad shared with me some excellent music. I'm really enjoying Pete Yorn, because he's a really solid songwriter, and Sugarcubes, because Bjork. Carla Bruni's first album, Quelqu'un M'a Dit, is just as enjoyable as a whole as the last song ("La Derniere Minute") AND as her sophomore effort (No Promises, the lyrics of which were all--mostly? idk--Anglophone poems). Check all three artists out or die.

I will start writing again. I will start writing again. I will start writing again. I'm working on a story. For once, I'm hoping this will go somewhere.

It is now eighty-one minutes past the start of the day. For sixty whole seconds, I thought of nothing but you. And I would have jumped at the chance to savor 00:00 with you tonight, would have fought to be there just for sixty seconds, had I known that without you midnight is just midnight. I think the countdown would taste amazing on your skin. The delight would mold itself to my hands, like maybe your hip bones would. You could tap the seconds into my hand. Our fingers would lie warm together in your hoodie pocket. I have become far too invested in this.

My tongue rests behind my teeth. My fingers fall carefully to the keys. My words sit heavy in my lap.

You are the rose I will ask for.

my name is will will the tin soldier (will the tin soldier please...?)

the boy in the courderoy jacket can't be too warm kindred spirits!i am not either. he reminds me of you (even though all you share is the pronoun and the jacket)
and he will never know that three days later i think about his red chilled cheeks teeth clenched against the cold and fists braced in his pockets. just like you will never know how close i came how close i would let myself get to you

my skull is falling apart i'm out of painkillers and it's too late to go to the store. my hair clings to my head like sleep to my eyeballs and if i'm a puzzle i'm missing a few crucial pieces

would you tell me?
i will never dust off the puzzle in the corner it has too many missing end pieces. you will never blow the dust off the good book because you can't be bothered to read more than a little.

people ask me all the time what's the date and what's the time and my internal clock's so screwed i couldn't even answer you when you asked if time's a lake or just a river with no end
i want to take a hammer to a watch and watch the cogs spring out and off quartz fingernails on leather jackets diamond ink in empty packets sand in digits hot and loose but you in me too far and close (how close how close?)

could you give me more than that? you're just yourself til you loan it. you're just a sheep so let's clone it. a name's a name but i own it. shakespeare said it best but maybe i'm no rose, just a closed mine closed mind

will you tell me a lie?

i stand on one leg a toy soldier or a crane and i'll empty rivers in pursuit of you mine is an honorable task and how could it be anything else when i stand so sharp and handsome in my tattered tin uniform?