Music emanates from you like heat from a sidewalk in July. It's curious and brilliant to watch, wanting so much to understand the process, but wanting more to uphold its mystery. If you were a walk you would be a swagger, aloof and seductive. I scamper quickly behind, sheepishly dodging in and out of alleys, hopelessly catching up from a distance. I am the hurried two-step beside you, the small feet of a child keeping up with a father's giant strides. I know nothing of myself anymore, though I know that what I am is incomplete. Your gaze is abstract, preoccupied. Oftentimes I wonder if you have every really seen me, even though I know you're the only one who possibly could.
Wednesday, May 29, 2013
Posted by Hellafied at 12:02 PM
Monday, April 15, 2013
Your words make no sense to me anymore. Those intrepid strokes on a silly and impressionable heart are now laughable. They are nothing but ethereal dust marks on an old highway of my memory.
You scrambled my insides and casually walked away while I gasped and stared at my reflection in the mirror, trying to recognize myself, trying to catch my breath. I’ve checked the mirror for weeks now and continue to gaze back as a stranger. It’s unkind to leave me this way; nothing of myself but bits of a moment I was part of for a while.
So consider this my first confession. I've found you.
But I've been unkind. Careless. I've stood under eaves of unfamiliar houses listening to the low music inside, desperately wanting to go in. I have woken up with strangers, but none stranger than myself. I have spoken in tongues and crawled in the mud. I've wrestled with my own conscience and purposefully let it win. I refuse to see things in black and white. I've dared, kissed, pushed the limits, crushed a cigarette into the ground and left with him. I've been begged, pleaded and sold. I've given up on you, lost you, found you, lost you and then watched you walk into the room and disappear into the light of atoms. I've seen through you so many times its embarrassing. I've smashed berries on my lips and pretended I was a May Queen. You've been my lover in my dreams, meeting me under purpled rain clouds and in dark corners of blues clubs. I have satiated lusts with one hushed word whispered with heat on my neck. I've returned gazes and rejected my closeted fears. I've pick pocketed emotions and stolen tears from you in giant sacks. I have a criminal record two days long. I've suffered your politics with a cracked, feigned smile and have seen you sway back and forth, like a tire swing crossing a line in the sand. I haven't always been honest. I've held back tomes of sentences meant for you, pushed them from my lips down into my toes until they twitched and yearned and forced me to run. I painted the walls of my heart in a glossy black after you left for the first time. Added a new coat each time you left after that. And though the paint is starting to chip again, I am too tired to touch it up.
Forgive me father for I have sinned. It's been sixteen months, nine days, and twelve hours since my last confession.
I confess. I’ve lost you.
I've shrunken your memory down to a dime-sized dollop--an agreeable spoonful so it's easier to swallow. Lately I've been wandering around my apartment thinking "these spaces used to be cozier", only it's not that the spaces have grown bigger, it's just that there is one less ghost haunting its halls. I have so many regrets that I've started collecting the inked up scraps of paper that litter my bedroom, bathroom, purse, car, and have laid them to rest in a shiny pink jar atop my writing desk. Yesterday, my regrets pulled me out of the shower to scribble another thought. Dripping wet I scurried from my bathroom to my bedroom to file it away. By the time I returned, I'd thought of another. There will always be dusky plumes of old desire. At quiet moments in my day I whisper kind words into the air to make others more forgiving of you. Of me. Of the fall of us. I've stolen memories from you, rationing them like scraps of food that will never satiate. I stash them in my closet along with bent photos and ticket stubs from a dusty, criminal past. I've spent the last three weeks with my headphones on, shouting out foreign phrases and sounds, trying to teach myself the language of courage. Only, it comes out in broken words and no one can understand me. Your memory flashes in my mind simultaneously with the beat of my heart. I've spent hours at my kitchen table doing breathing exercises to slow its pace. Now I only think of you sixty-five times per minute. I find myself staring down at my palms, splotched with that familiar, fresh black paint I’ve spent all afternoon trying to rub off. I am considering sending you my language tapes. Perhaps they'll do you some good where I have failed.
And although I confess all of this to you now, I know for sure you won't hear it.
Posted by Hellafied at 3:30 PM
Thursday, March 28, 2013
Posted by Hellafied at 10:30 AM
Saturday, March 23, 2013
Posted by Hellafied at 7:00 AM
Tuesday, March 19, 2013
I know I am a leaky vessel, but do I want to know it every day? This
morning I stumble out of bed in my rumpled yellow t-shirt, the hands of
sleep still covering my eyes, begging me to guess who. The floor is cold
and my feet are bare. My spaghetti arms hang loosely at my sides, not
yet ready to function and as I pad to the bathroom I stub my big toe on
the door frame. My humanity reveals itself today in the form of pain. I
frown and rub my toe furiously and I know what kind of day today will
Today will take its time, each frame flickering forward slowly, like a movie set in slow motion. Sometimes a giant imaginary finger will push pause at specific moments that serve to remind me of myself. The smile of a passing stranger in a red coat. The minute before I finish the last page of the book I’ve been reading for weeks. A laughing voice on the other end of the phone. A package from the mailman. The stubbed big toe.
And these things make me leak. They are the tiny eyelet holes that expose what’s inside me. I cannot hide my happiness or helplessness or fear or remorse or joy. They pierce through the holes of these things like sunlight through lace.
No one knows that I am thirty-two years old and am still scared of the dark. When I get home at night I sprint up the stairs and when I swing the heavy door open I am breathless and safe. I am human because I am afraid. This too, I cannot hide.
Sometimes when I am lying in bed and those minutes hit me when I am just on the verge of sleep, I recall those moments, those pauses in my day when I am revealed. Sighing, I wonder how this ship will ever sail with so many holes in it?
Posted by Hellafied at 1:14 PM
Tuesday, July 17, 2012
Posted by Hellafied at 11:00 AM
Wednesday, October 20, 2010
Like an ancient code
Explaining the mouths of rivers
And the lines of palms
Why day and night and wet and dry
And you and I exist
love is not
that love by deceiving is poetry
between the kiss and confession lies reality
nearly blinding and convincing
before love and binding is silence
blind and naked
there i undress
here made to stand strangled
upon his hand
this ignorance made with color
sworn to say bliss
but not believing it
The Moon is not as gentle as the Sun,
sometimes it is too demanding, too bold
it rapped on my window with its
big blue hand telling me it was time
to go to sleep. “Your friend the Sun
told me about you. You like to work
when the Sun goes down. You don’t sleep enough.
Why do you scribble at that desk
with such a thin pencil
into the long hours of night? Don’t you know
that I come for you?
For all of you?"
I did not hear the Moon’s last words,
my eyes were not accustomed to
such a brilliant diamond shine.
It affected me,
“I am sorry,” I said, “but I am a poet
and I work at night. I mean not to
interfere with your duties.”
I noticed the Moon’s pocked silver face
was more smooth on the right side
as it tilted its round head downward.
The Moon’s lips were but streaks,
golden ethereal dust marks
on an old highway of a face.
I wanted them to blow away as it spoke,
“Most people wait for my arrival. Most people
sit on the edge of their small beds and
tap their small feet together and
count the minutes before
I come” he said.
“You should hang up the clothes of day,
wash off the face you wear to work,
clean the hands that catch the Sun,
and open the closet for your night”.
“Yes?” I asked. My eyes has adjusted
to the Moon’s reticent glare.
“Your closet will be filled with
the things of dreams...
tangerines and paintings,
and the music of Ella Fitzgerald.”
“Then I will come to keep the night
just lucid enough for you to feel
the thoughts float to the tips of your fingers
and slide into that thin pencil of yours.”
I watched as the Moon turned its back
and noticed how round and hunched its shoulders
were. As it slunk down the path to the next house
I began to get very tired. Pretty soon I was asleep.