I spent a night and a day in the sea,
Borne among the waves.
It broke loose a gasp of hope from my chest
And the darkness held fast to the heat of the day.
I returned to shore a lighter thing,
Loving of my lot.
Plaqued with salt and free to sing
Of all that I’ve given and got.
Plaqued with salt and stuck with sand
I put the weight on you.
I felt my fragments readhere
And I was known and new,
As new as some black waterfowl gone swimming in the slough.
Now the train dips and rolls me northward
Toward what I cannot foresee.
It was not, until it was,
And yes it’s quite all right with me.
Beneath the water all was well,
The tide it tipped and bucked and swelled.
Papa rode the breaking wave with me not far behind.
But in the night when only I
Was mad enough to strip and dive,
You watched me from the shore,
Held me ‘til I was warm,
And held me until finally I knew.
It’s all right to weary,
To give up resistance,
To do what we are meant to do.
To lean into your arms
No longer harrowed by harm
And to put the weight on you.
Single twenty-two year old female enjoys: Watching 'gossip girl' on internet thieved from 'the bay bridge inn', long chats with her psychiatrist, crashing cars, her favorite cafe, debussy on vinyl, good bourbon, and masochistic pursuits. (!)
Seeking: male of above-average intelligence. a deeply-seeded penchant for self-loathing is a definite plus! should enjoy hating oneself, sanctimonious judgments, playing it cool, and a self-perpetuated state of 'being all-alone in the world'.
For: A psychological dalliance of pathetic yet nuclear proportions!!
I cannot breathe, it was not a good idea.
Silk bound breasts. Blurring vision.
My body does not thank me, my mind
Does not thank me my straining heart
Does not thank me my shaking legs
Do not thank me, I do not
I do not Thank You. For pulling me
Into your arms, for biting my pleading
Limbs, for baring my laboring chest
I do not Thank You.
I sweat, I tremble, I Do Not Thank You.
For dealing with what you've wrought,
Should I then thank you? For
What you were and then were not
Should I then thank you?
I know that I was your accomplice.
In every deed and each kiss.
I do not deny it.
And I Do Not Thank You.
in the mornings i don't feel good. i just don't, feel good. i just don't.
when i wake i don't feel good. i just don't, feel good. i just don't.
i feel like a bottle of champagne someone knocked off of a shelf
to go rolling rolling round the floor. i'm all shook up.
the book is described as containing a 'comically helpless masochism'
i don't want to read it.
i do not think that the words apply to me, the thoughtless words,
a ‘comically helpless masochism,’ oh, go fuck yourself, you,
whoever you are who could believe in such a thing.
i am bleeding from my mouth, it pools beneath my tongue,
i clutch the gape in my chest that is blown through,
my eyes roll back, i dream in pain of you,
ecstasy, ecstasy, ecstasy, says the page.
when i wake up i don't feel hate or rage.
i just don't feel good. i just don't.
you could at least get out of my dreams
you're a very mean thing. you're a very mean thing.
while i endeavored to be the lady in green
i was getting all dressed up to go nowhere.
Bury your face in my lap until I have a heart attack, my cynic. I want to die with someone in my arms.
With your nose in my skirt, unveil your hurt, inhale my vapors and grow slack and warm, no longer to come to harm although you won't believe it.
And your pain has become my pain, cynic. Like when you pulled me onto your back and we tumbled into bed. The cynic in you became the cynic in me, and drunkenly it went straight to my head.
And your darling features belie your bitter heart like a ravaged cypress which will not be torn apart but simply stands there, bowed and broken, and begging for support to deny.
This is who I am, cynic. And this is where I have arrived. You've seen the shaking of my body and known the stones in my eyes. And cynic, I don't know what you think, your misanthropic mind. What might have been or what lies down the line. To steel myself toward something that I cannot yet recognize is what awaits me now, my punishment, my prize.
dark clouds are rolling across the sky, obscuring my vision, cynic. what i thought would be simple was a painting perceived from a distance. in front of me it is rough, the texture beneath my hands feels like clotted pigments. the truth tastes like a mouthful of whisky, like old espresso.
each person walking by can see through to me and through me, my vermilion pout, kissed a million times, split and bitten, abandoned, like a pomegranate. each person peers through the glass into the very stones of my eyes, steals what they can and, fortified, strides off.
i will not blow the dust from the surface of a memory, cynic. i will not recall the freedom of two strangers on that very street who neither knew nor cared, then, who did not know: that the cynic in you, my darling, is the cynic in me.
and so the fruit was torn in two and out were sucked the seeds. it is not impossible that at some point, one got what they needed. it is not impossible that something new was seeded, but i cannot tell the future any more than the next beautiful, wounded cynic limping down the street.
All I want to do is sleep, cynic. This waking life is too sharp and I am too frail to withstand it. And I have seen you in your nakedness, so wounded, while you have seen me disarmed and charmed and weak. You would say, what does that count for, Allison? You would say, I’m glad you’re entertained. You would say, I know myself. And I would know your thousand fragments and your chains.
Let’s be light, a little lighter, cynic. The droning insect can be batted away by a hand. We can try, can try to understand. You would say, what does that count for, Allison? You would say, I understand quite well. Your loneliness resounds to me, its disastrous bell. Your dissonance resounds as it screeches and swells.
Some people say that they feel like death but I feel more akin to dying. Not in the sense that I am trying, but in the sense that I'm on some dark doorstep naked and bent. You have chewed me to the quick and spat me out, contorted, cynic. You are embittered beyond any light of sense. The droning insect circles you and wraps you in its web.
You would say, you do assume to know, don't you, Allison? Perhaps you'd say, yet you don't know a thing. Perhaps you would be right, adored cynic. I can only know what I can see. There was once a day, bore some pollen which whispered a notion of happy. But for your scorn it has evaded you as it has denied me.