dumbbitcharchives
at the end of the day:
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it's like i'm rubbing away a layer of filmy mucus and seeing clearly for the first time in ages. it's like i'm forcing myself against a whetstone, feeling the pebbled surface of it carve this bloated body into something that's almost sharp enough to feel like me again. i'm not sure who i've been.
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i’m not sure how to feel. this in itself is not unusual--but i’m not even sure how to command myself to feel, what feeling to speak into existence. should i be mad? should i be mad?
i’m not sure what to do with her. i am not sure. this in itself is not unusual, because the only emotion i’ve had stronger than my hatred for her is that time i loved her. and now there is to be peace. i guess. god, you know, like--unburden yourself already. there’ll be no peace until you do. until she does, i mean. until you do.
i’m not sure how important the past is. maybe there is just the present, because reality is not comprised of patterns, necessarily--there is no promise of repetition. so the past is the past and the now is now and now is everything and tomorrow is blazing and bright and unknowable. and you like this. you love it! i think i am going to sabotage my whole life. i think i am going to ruin everything.
there is a sleeping boy in this bed. his face is vulnerable when he sleeps. and i wonder what’s lurking at his core. vulnerability, i’m going to stress, is not softness, although it’s so raw it sometimes feels like it. vulnerability, i’m going to vow, is not for me. he is probably dreaming. he is probably dreaming.
there is this: me at the center of the universe. the core of the milky way, the center into which--from which???--its tendrils meander, is made of hurt. so this hurt little creature manages to hurt everyone she loves (and hates) and still feels like the victim. you hurt me first, you know? the great fallacy of i was hurt first.
there are a couple things you can’t escape from, and they are as follows: your dad is going to die, you are going to become your mom, and you have to live with yourself for the rest of your life. you have to find a way to stand yourself. forever. god. i hope we get reborn so i can catch a fucking break. i hope my dad gets reborn and this time around the world is so gentle. although this is probably the second greatest fallacy of all, and even when you’re born with a silver spoon in your mouth there are thorns. you have to plant them yourself but--you know. they’re there.
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there are a lot of ways to be a passionate lover, i think. i’m talking about the grand scheme of things, about appearances--about the encyclopedia of humans that god keeps, just a short entry for everyone who ever lived, that he lets the angels read when things are slow up there. there are a lot of ways. the first way is this: i find you when i’m still a kid. we’re both kids. and i love you in that clumsy unpracticed way. we laugh a lot, figure things out--and i love you and love you and love you until i die and i realize there was never anything to figure out, that life is a roll of film unfurling and it was only ever you and me. this picture of things is colored gold. i squint into the possibility of it. gold like--oh, come on. you don’t have to take every piece of low-hanging fruit. the gist of it is i found you. i’m not letting go.
and i guess there’s also the way where life and love are one thing (the universe experiencing itself etc.), and i know this--in this version of things i’m imbued with this divine sense about How Things Are. so i go to paris and make love with men and women and the world, smoke a cigarette or twelve on a balcony, wear long black dresses with low backs--okay, this is turning into a vague collection of movie aesthetics--and most importantly disappear from my smoke world where and when i want to. if this is the Way Things Are then just living is an act of devotion. haunting. haunting. haunting. the roads we don’t take.
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he took me by my little face and said you look like athena, said you’re quite simply my favorite person, said you make me believe in god. this is all well and good: the violins play, or the harps, or whatever instrument is protocol for that kind of thing. but then, you know, he reads me a destiel fanfic that he liked back when he was into supernatural, looks up a shipping compilation on youtube to really show me what we’re working with (we are working, as i suspected, with two straight white men, but it’s set to that one lord huron song), and i laugh until i forget how not to smile. and it occurs to me that for the first time--for the first time--i am not embarrassed of myself. that tight knot (the one that lives in my stomach, that periodically liquefies into hot, salty hatred before beginning the slow process of congealing back again into shame) is not there. and that’s--i mean.
i mean.
oh! here it is: i want him to know me. huh.
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well, it’s happening again--and beginning to feel like my whole life will just be a series of happenings, of ebbs (the lazy trickling illusion of peace) and torrential, fatal flows that take me under for days and days and then spit me out, gasping, shivering, a curled heap on some barren unknown shore. i will never love easily.
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sick to my stomach for the thousand-and-first time this week because of you. WHY, this time around, is this half sweetness and half TORTURE. i am happy. i am happy. i was happy. am i being pulled into a black hole? maybe i’m not the problem, or at least not all of it--maybe i never was! maybe it’s you--it’s you--it’s you. maybe i am nothing like i thought i was to you. maybe this whole thing is a big fucking joke, a competition you resent, and in which you’ve decided, since quitting isn’t an option, that i’m the most tolerable prize of the whole miserable bunch. and simple me--stupid me--to think you were happy, too. i am being so catastrophically serious right now: stupid me. stupid me. stupid, emotional little girl. i have invested everything i have and am and ever was with blind, breathless abandon.
tell me the fucking truth. for once. how i make your lip curl. how you stoop down to look in my eyes. how it’s karrsen fucking bryant against the world, how no one else gets it--gets you--as if you ever give them the chance. fuck me face-down into the mattress (i am at least good for this). oh, or grab me soft around the middle and push in, like you always do, and breathe things into my ear that you think i want to hear (they’re the same things any silly girl wants, so the whole practice is easy to the point of repetition). i could scream! i am nothing! i am nothing! i am--
i am going to claw bloody lines down my throat, because it feels better than the burn of trying not to cry. because i am not what you think i am. there is no wool over my eyes. i see with jewel-toned clarity every way (from fire to ice) the world could ever end. i will claw until my fingernails splinter down to the jagged bloody quick to the very center of you and take for myself whatever i find there. i refuse blind contentment, although it is shining and delicate and soft--and right there, within reach, calling with a voice like a song.
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every waking moment is for you. tu penses aussi à moi? either way. i’ve been half wretched and half divine lately. i have loved so deeply it made me want to tear my heart out--so deeply you could sip it like tea and honey--so deeply i’ve been transformed, hideous, held together, born and burned and reborn between your palms. the thought of you with her is searing, an iron i can’t drop even as my hands blister (i wish i wasn’t like this. i wish i was softer, sweeter. can i ask you for something unfair?). love me anyway. love me regardless.
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“i’ll see you soon:” a prayer, a promise,
the last straw from which i drink you dry.
with you it is skin on skin on skin--warm,
in the way that summer is (if, i guess,
i’m the ice cream cone melting in rivulets
down a child’s chubby arm, and not, say,
the flower that withers in the overabundant heat,
which can’t help but strain its long slender neck
still--always--towards the sun);
desperate, in the way that autumn warns of winter,
in the way that the leaves become more beautiful
before they die--obstinately, cyclically, leaving behind
rows of stripped-bare skeletons that howl at the loss
(it is no less distressing for how predictable it is).
and still: i love you like spring, sweet boy. you’re like spring.
and i hold you in my palm and cradle you there
for one single precious moment before you scatter--
a thousand soaring fractals of life and laughter--
into the wind.
a prayer, then. a reprise. i’ll see you soon.
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dark chocolate
there’s this wondering happiness that won’t leave her face, and she says, “you’re very beautiful. you’re a very beautiful person.” the way she says it is a goodbye (a letting go), and although there is something bitter about being let go, it’s the kind of faltering decadence that makes things more sweet, really. and it’s nice, you know, to be on the other side, to be a very beautiful person in the company of very beautiful people and to all love each other the way we should.
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there is no “this.” i mean, there is: i sleep over at his house more than mine, and he plays with my fingers when we’re spacing out, and i kiss his eyelids and neck and ribs for good measure, soft (these parts of him and my lips against them). i am addicted to it--to this--“this”--which, again, does not exist. it’s half the softest thing in the world, the kind of soft small thing that you have to cradle against your chest, feel its fluttering heartbeat against your own--and then, you know, half rotten. (decay, to be fair, lends its own form of softness).
we were getting coffee, me in the same clothes from the night before, him in a thrifted shirt covered in these abstracted, crudely drawn cats--there was a stain near the bottom, like one of the cats had peed itself--and as the barista looked up he stopped dead.
“you could run the country with those eyes,” he said, with this little awed laugh. “no, i’m serious. you got beautiful eyes, man.” and this boy, this boy with the beautiful eyes--god, you know, they really are (beautiful), liquid blue and gold under these sweeping doe lashes--blushed and stumbled and tried to laugh it off with the other baristas. i thought, i will keep you on a leash, from now on. he bought me coffee and a breakfast burrito and i smiled so much that morning i couldn’t stop for the rest of the day.
again: this kind of sun-speckled joy is a half-the-time kind of deal. in his room it’ll be late, late, late, and i’ll be asleep until i feel his mouth hot and wet against the back of my neck. the crisp black of sleep’ll melt into the black of a room at night--a muddier kind of darkness broken by the single painful point of the streetlight outside. it’ll be so late (in the distance, a faint car alarm) and we won’t have brushed our teeth and his open-mouthed kiss will be sour--but i’ll turn to him still, a magnet, helpless, moved by (reliant on?) his insistence. the magnitude of his want. let him have what he wants when he wants it, pretend (for the audience of me and god, i guess) that i don’t relish in the vulgarity of how one-sided it is. to be needed and wanted and crushed under the weight of someone.
there’s no “this” because it’s a lot of things, as much as everything and as little as nothing: because i love him too much and not ever enough, and because he’s the best person in the world and my biggest disappointment. he knows me completely and so laughably, painfully little. i will marry him. i will break his heart again just like i did two years ago--and this time it’ll shatter completely.
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a generation of voyeurs (or a pair, at least)
tell me--are you a player in your fantasies?
if mine are to be believed, my darkest wish
is to be written out of the script. to watch and watch
and watch a thousand times
love from a god’s-eye view
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i am so mad at her i could spit, might spit, probably just for the drama of it all. it swells inside me. i think i am a noxious gas balloon. i am not a balloon but an adult--oh, but age is irrelevant when the only characteristic of mine she thinks about is hers. i am not tall or absentminded or gentle or anything, really. i am nothing but my mother’s daughter. i want to say, the tighter you hold me the more i want to go and go and go and go and go, so far away the echo of you dies. but i don’t, because i don’t think i can even fathom how many pieces she can splinter into.
you’re not leaving. that’s not how this works. you’re staying here.
she looks at me with narrowed eyes, dark eyebrows casting the hallows into shadow, everything pulled helplessly toward the center of her face like there’s a black hole there. but it softens, melts, and she starts to cry, and this horrible balloon inside my chest slowly deflates. i melt, too.
i guess when you were left behind, every little goodbye is another abandonment. is being six and having a mother one day and having none the next, no goodbye. she constructs the same gaps she felt for me, forces herself into places where there’s no lack. she’s everywhere. she breaks my heart but not a trillionth of the amount that i break hers. so i’m just trapped. loving my mom.
#you really cannot talk to your friends with white mothers about this#'just tell her no--' yeah ok. ok i'll do that. ok. ok
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People always ask, with these wide, blinking eyes, for you to say out loud what has been too terrible to even think. To swallow that dense ball of dread for them, for their curiosity. Because they love you, or like you, at least. Because they would accept you, so why--?
Their acceptance is a funny thing. I am going to lose everything. I am going to lose everything I have. And all I have is this silence, is this indifference, is this plausible deniability. I’m keeping the whole weight of the sky suspended in my mouth if you’d just let me keep it shut.
I’m not even a person, sometimes. Just a vague amalgamation of questions that amount to nothing—full of sound and fury—but they want answers, they want something, they want all of this to amount to a beautiful tragedy even if you have to make something up.
Blink.
They’re waiting for me to say something. They want me to answer the biggest question in the universe, and I’m going to do it, because I owe this, apparently. Because the silence has stretched on too long.
I clench my fists until bone breaks through the stretched skin on my knuckles. The lie is like a balm.
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i did love him. it was impossible not to, because i loved everything about my life--every shining thing, including him. the parties. the attention. the novelty, most of all. every day a kind of clenched euphoria, in crowded basements with dizzy lights and new people and smoke. that’s love, and i sucked it dry. marrow from the bone.
then--and how can these exist in the same timeline?--that house on the lake, the one with water-rounded stones and dappled sunlight. we cooked dinner with ingredients we bought at the market as the sunlight cooled and died on the water. he cooked, anyway. do you want to know the secret to really good potatoes? he asked. yeah, i said. he said a shit ton of butter. peace can be blinding. i guess that’s love, too, even if it’s only some of the time.
everything flattens after some time, like how things get smaller when you get further away. a house becomes a speck of dust on the horizon until it disappears around the gentle bend of the earth’s curvature. you can’t see it anymore, so you have to just know--to remember--or not remember, even, but just tell yourself it was there. is there. still.
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this week my roommates and i got a cat. she just walks around—sometimes she brushes by me when she plods past, tail curling around my leg before slipping free as easy as smoke. i am in awe of her. i don’t like to get too near her mouth when i pet her. i wish she would stop coming near me, because i am burdened by the performance of it all. of loving a cat. one day she will snap and bite me—i’m sure of it—or i will snap and lock her out of the house. i am just not sure which will come first.
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the raw and bloody hand
that kind of lives around
my throat doesn’t like it when
the world is silent for a moment
although i can then here the patter
of droplets on the stone earth
it likes chaos and confusion
likes life to be a cacophony
likes to trace cryptic messages into
the tender skin at my throat and the nape
of my neck.
i say what the fuck does that mean?
what does any of this mean?
and the way the fingers whisper against each other
against each other and against the pink
shell of my ear
sounds like laughter, mocking,
sounds like--
if we knew, do you really think we’d be here?
#please note that this is word vomit#one of those exercises where you don't stop writing even to think#i will stop trying to elegantly explain things to myself#poetry as performance#yadda yadda#it'll be embarrassing if that's a tag people check
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i want to be.. a little bit rawer. raw-er. you know? one of those people that subverts the expectations of being poignant (and, you know, therein lies their poignancy). you’re nothing if you’re not quotable. i just wrote that i was feeling a little in love with the world, because that’s the pretty way of saying that i spent two hours scrolling through a tumblr tag for a french children’s cartoon & (oh, the colloquialism of & !!) that makes it so that no one else can ever be like, yes, me too, i’ve done that too, that makes me feel like that, too--
so here it is. it is approaching 3 in the morning, kind of, and i spent two hours consuming content i should have outgrown but that fills me with the need to create and consume and live another day, and--sorry, & i texted my boss too late that i couldn’t come in to work so my phone is an evil thing, a burning thing, a ticking time bomb, & if i sleep i will have a nightmare & when i wake up in the morning i am scared i will be bored out of my skull.
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