I will speak freely just for a moment in the hopes that perhaps a small bit of what makes me amazing may be etched in electronic ink. You are a carnation I never want to pick. A stand out among a sea of flowers. And though others lean towards roses, tulips, even daisies; you stand firm. I wish I could lay in the grass and count your petals. But my eyes are not keen enough. I wish I could gently uproot you from the ground. But my fingers are too brawny and coarse. Maybe one day my eyes will change colors? Perhaps the callous will wash away and only leave smooth dainty hands. I wait knowing that even though I have not pressed you inside my own book, I've at least affirmed you in text. I apologize for my lack of technique. I've been in a rut for some while. But tonight you have temporarily freed me from the bastion of self deprecation I so shoddily stood in.
Sunday, June 21, 2015
Thursday, June 18, 2015
When people lean just a little over you, they're getting ready to tell you bad news.
It's always a misnomer. They pretend that they're hurt as well, but they're height speaks volumes about the power dynamic. And all you can do is hunch your head over your clenched fist and let your face rest. You stare, nodding begrudgingly and I watch singing to myself and secretly to you in the hopes that somehow these vibes find a way of magically comforting you. And so you agree because that's what good people do. They'll always come up with some reason for why it isn't your fault. We'll just call it creative differences and part ways. Everyone has a convenient time constraint. I have class. I need to go to bed early. I ordered dominoes pizza and don't want your ass in my room when I come back with my food. Petty. Still I heard you sing and I know you have such a beautiful voice. Sing a spiritual for me tonight. I won't be there of course, but just as you hopefully heard my voice then perhaps I'll be able to hear your anguish.
Time to take the little green man off the table. This isn't your moment. Tune out, thus tuning you back in to the constant rotation of the escalators. the hum of the vending machines. The red headed latina who has vibrant red lipstick on. And though I see you floundering, gasping for emotional air at each moment, thinking maybe I can explain my way out of this, I realize there's nothing I can do. And even the very act of writing this is just a selfish projection. I see the man lounging over the chair, leg dangling over the armrest. He is in bliss because he cannot hear.
The third act is always one of inner reflection. I'd like to believe I've unraveled something for you to see, but I realize that this was all for me. I chose this portrait and even as you walk away from the fictional excursion, I find myself still imagining an empty feeling over the entire event. I just think you're sad, maybe as I was sad. I just think you're defeated, just as I was defeated. I just think you are exhausted, just as I was panting. The final reflection is simple. I am sad. I am defeated. I am exhausted. At least I did all those things from the solace of hotel furniture. You on the other hand went through those things in my fictional retelling of your evening breakup.
It's always a misnomer. They pretend that they're hurt as well, but they're height speaks volumes about the power dynamic. And all you can do is hunch your head over your clenched fist and let your face rest. You stare, nodding begrudgingly and I watch singing to myself and secretly to you in the hopes that somehow these vibes find a way of magically comforting you. And so you agree because that's what good people do. They'll always come up with some reason for why it isn't your fault. We'll just call it creative differences and part ways. Everyone has a convenient time constraint. I have class. I need to go to bed early. I ordered dominoes pizza and don't want your ass in my room when I come back with my food. Petty. Still I heard you sing and I know you have such a beautiful voice. Sing a spiritual for me tonight. I won't be there of course, but just as you hopefully heard my voice then perhaps I'll be able to hear your anguish.
Time to take the little green man off the table. This isn't your moment. Tune out, thus tuning you back in to the constant rotation of the escalators. the hum of the vending machines. The red headed latina who has vibrant red lipstick on. And though I see you floundering, gasping for emotional air at each moment, thinking maybe I can explain my way out of this, I realize there's nothing I can do. And even the very act of writing this is just a selfish projection. I see the man lounging over the chair, leg dangling over the armrest. He is in bliss because he cannot hear.
The third act is always one of inner reflection. I'd like to believe I've unraveled something for you to see, but I realize that this was all for me. I chose this portrait and even as you walk away from the fictional excursion, I find myself still imagining an empty feeling over the entire event. I just think you're sad, maybe as I was sad. I just think you're defeated, just as I was defeated. I just think you are exhausted, just as I was panting. The final reflection is simple. I am sad. I am defeated. I am exhausted. At least I did all those things from the solace of hotel furniture. You on the other hand went through those things in my fictional retelling of your evening breakup.
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