Empty Jar

Cunt.

When one woman calls another a
‘cunt,’

You think:
‘damn,’
is she an

unclassy bitch.

Passive Aggressive

Babe, I can tell.

(It’s in the wrinkles).

mahogany marmalade

He was not coming back – she had reached that conclusion months ago. But in the midst of it all, the unyielding possibility that his coarse mahogany boots would dribble against the floor and she would be sitting on the couch – that she had bought before him – waiting for him, she decided it was better to keep the jar of marmalade half-eaten, in case he returned.

No Spark

Well,

we tried.

A Scenario:

A, who, still in love with B, decides C is the better, ‘now.’ B, no longer in love with A – probably never has been – comes to the conclusion that D, is the better choice. D is not. D is mentally fucked up. D is partially wounded. B and D conclude regretfully. A and C continue on.

You are A.

You are B.

You are C.

You are D.

atrophy

Last night, the cold cornered me and pinned me down; I barely had time to greet hello. I thought it rude but winter does that to you. To your head, to your body, to the parts of us we rarely think about. It makes us undone. I plopped down on the snow, legs giving out, tired of standing up for things I never believed in. I made his lips buzz last night.

Malaise

a routine
itch.

Sushi

When did it
become a
sorority thing?

Don’t do it: Compromising what you know in exchange for meaningless trysts of slight affirmation is only damaging to your health.

Don’t do it: Compromising what you know in exchange for meaningless trysts of slight affirmation is only damaging to your health. To your heart, making it wrinkled and weary. To your legs, always pacing for answers. To your fingers, no more nails to bite. To your hair, not enough to pull. To your eyes, too many tears to shed. To your ears, the nauseating soliloquies to those who have heard it all. To your mind, silent synapses emitted from your heart. To your stomach, having to deal with your heart dropping to the pit, chafing your lungs along the way.  To your lips, chapped from whoknowswhat and your delirious moments of supposed happiness.

It’s a lot to ask for, I know.

Chronology

1. I think I loved you. I think I may have always loved you. In a way where if the sky fell and broke and we were left to pick up the pieces, my fingers would bleed blood red from the glass and I would be okay with it. Sometimes, maybe that’s what love is. A lot of blood, tears and sacrifice and in the end, we will be happy that we restored the sky to the natural blue that it was.

2. There are times when I doubt our love and occasionally it makes me smirk and give the finger to the man upstairs. I want to shout and scream at him and tell him how stupid he was in thinking we would never make it and then I would turn to you and make sure the red stain that was first on my lips are now on yours. Sometimes I think we need to doubt our love, to know what we can or cannot be.

3. I think I may have never loved you. I flinched when you touched me; my heart groaned – when you beckoned for me to love you back – and my fingers tingled thinking that we would be, ‘forever.’ I wish I didn’t come to the conclusion, but when the sky fell and my fingers bled and I transferred the red from my lips to yours, the natural blue that was supposed to be there was already tainted.

batting feathers

he asked if i could bat my eyelashes for him and i said darling, i would love to but these lashes only go so high and i pursed my red lips into a smirk before he realized i wasn’t joking about the mininess of the feathers on my eyes. i batted and batted hoping he could notice a difference but i saw his gaze flicker up and down: from my forehead shining with oil to my eyes batting with feathers and my lips flaking with the red presence of something that had been there before until he reached forward and took it away.

Trois.

Trois. The dark beer splattered all over my white pants and I’m pissed. Chattering and mumbling cricket around me and I suddenly notice I am the only sober one in the room. The brunette girl with the skintight skirt moves like a vulture towards the only decent man with his blue chambray shirt and khaki pants, and something blossoms. His gaze is tight: right on her – good thing, bro. Her maniacal laugh reverberates throughout the room and I see the hearts of men who’ve never felt a thing experience a tingling that goes from their spine to the bottom that pulsates violently and goes down and down and

down,

down,

down.

generations

my father said he caught my mother’s eye. my mother said my father felt her up on the bus on the way home from school. my father said nonsense, I am a gentleman. my mother nodded her head and agreed. he used to write motorcycles you know, she said. my father used to be an orphan. he used to be a thief. not a thief thief. a petty thief. he used to steal lunches. he used to be a rebel. he said he once ate a meal with a dead lizard inside. my father is well read. his letters are poetry. my mothers family looked down on my father. my mothers father used to be a famous chef at a famous restaurant. he was married to my grandmother for 50 years. my grandfather had Alzheimer’s. he remembered my name. he used to call me hummingbird. my father used to be wealthy. my fathers family fled the revolution. they lost all their money. there are still plots of land under my fathers name. my father went from all, to nothing. 

my father once cheated on my mother. my mother cried. she wailed. she screamed. she wanted a divorce. i said sure. she didn’t want a divorce. i said sure. i wrote an angry letter. filled with angry words. i wrote a letter of poetry. i was angry; i bled on the inside. my mother loves my father. my father loves my mother. their gaze is undeniable. they hold hands. things happen. my mother laughs at it now. my dad turns red. i am indifferent.

the foundations of a marriage changes from couple to couple. people drift apart, some stay together for a lifetime. occasionally you need a respite. however long that is, it’s hard to gauge. i don’t think i ever want to get married. there’s a lot of commitment, you know, i told him. why can’t two people just love each other enough to want to stay together. is marriage everything. i knew i had irked him. but i had to know.

he stared at me. he didn’t say anything.

then he opened his mouth enough for me to see him pushing his tongue against his teeth.

i wanted to stop him right there and kiss him.

khaki pants

I spilt the drink on his white khaki pants and he stared at me in such a way that it made me feel embarrassed. But then he cracked a smile and said, “it’s okay” and began wiping the diet coke off his pants did I start feeling better about my predicament in the pub.

Shit.

His green eyes drew me in and I think that’s why I spilt the beer. My hands were shaky. In an instance – where I was not looking and not searching – he became the object of my attention. Argyle socks, black and pink, back and forth in a pattern deliriously drawing, I was hooked.

Fuck.

Like an anvil, my head slumped back and forth, unable to pick itself up to hold my dignity. I was hooked. He was not the love of my life. There had been one before. Green eyes and blonde hair; I had loved him. This guy looked broken and hurt. It was enough. In the instance that I realized we were both looking for something impermanent but also inconsequential; I knew we were probably meant to be.

Fate; so they called it. I had read about those long ago; in the events that I never had the courage to stand up to my own fate and destiny, one would do it for me, in letters and in punctation, spelling out everything I needed.

There are chances and choices, he said. I believe you; this haze is slowly wearing off. But your crackling pants are enough.

gaze

a lot of it is in the gaze. on the subway, when you forget your book and are tired of your music you stare at the people around you. and you can always tell those in love. you can tell which one is more in love. you can tell which one wants to break up. it’s all in the gaze. i used to have a gaze like that. i used to be gazed upon like that. it’s a warm feeling, to know you’ve captured someone’s attention. a gaze is indescribable. everyone has their own gaze. it’s like their romantic DNA. my gaze flutters and opens wide and his gaze was squinty and mischievous. sometimes i caught him gazing at me. and i would smile to myself. and sometimes he would catch me gazing at me and he would reach forward and crinkle his nose into my forehead. he’s been dead six years; now i catch are stolen glances.