You are making these walls. You are building them out of the words we say, and hiding in a fort of our vulgarities. The injection of our words has not made you better, but they have made you immune. You are a product of abuse. You are as hard as a bone where it was broken; you won’t break in the same place again.
You try to hide the bruises behind your ear. You’re looking for someone to love. I don’t have to look far to see who taught you that sharp tongue, and that critical eye. I don’t have to wait long before they come out. Anything good we say, anything at all, doesn’t matter. It doesn’t matter because we say bad things too. You are consistent, unlike us. You constantly outpour the trash we fill you up with. It’s like those pictures of landfills we like to ignore. We keep making more and more trash each day. And you are here as a reminder of the cost of our transgressions, you show us how ugly we can be. You are showing me a reflection I don’t want to see.
Saturday, February 27, 2010
Wednesday, February 10, 2010
Sometimes I Still Need You
Sometimes at night you're in my room. When I'm alone, and no one is online, you lay in my bed and make that face.
It makes me reach out and cup your invisible cheek in my hand, and stroke your skin while I cry and remember what I lost.
Tonight I was walking up the hill, and I swear you were right behind me, coming up from last summer, meeting me from the train tracks after we fought. You were right there.
I lay in my bed and remember the words you used to say. I listen to the Ukrainian closely. I look at red Van's in the store window. I hid your key away.
I take the bus to you. We go to Fatburger. We look for Phoenix. We drive to Portland. We fight. We lay in bed. I slap you. You walk away. I sit on the sidewalk and cry until you don't leave me anymore. I promise you. You promise me. We're okay. We're traveling, listening to NPR, listening to music. I sit with you in the gym. We look for Risk. I'm running after you. I'm yelling at you in the street downtown. We're on the monorail. We're getting Mexican food. We're in our separate hotel rooms. We are sitting on a bench in Kirkland, we are playing checkers with twigs.
I wonder what we will do tomorrow.
It makes me reach out and cup your invisible cheek in my hand, and stroke your skin while I cry and remember what I lost.
Tonight I was walking up the hill, and I swear you were right behind me, coming up from last summer, meeting me from the train tracks after we fought. You were right there.
I lay in my bed and remember the words you used to say. I listen to the Ukrainian closely. I look at red Van's in the store window. I hid your key away.
I take the bus to you. We go to Fatburger. We look for Phoenix. We drive to Portland. We fight. We lay in bed. I slap you. You walk away. I sit on the sidewalk and cry until you don't leave me anymore. I promise you. You promise me. We're okay. We're traveling, listening to NPR, listening to music. I sit with you in the gym. We look for Risk. I'm running after you. I'm yelling at you in the street downtown. We're on the monorail. We're getting Mexican food. We're in our separate hotel rooms. We are sitting on a bench in Kirkland, we are playing checkers with twigs.
I wonder what we will do tomorrow.
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