July 2009


It’s light out. It has been for hours. The sun is shining and I am the only person in the world, in this world, with a smile so bright. The sun might not even be out, it’s possible we’re all basking in me. 

 

Everyone who isn’t you. 

 

How did we even get here, how is it that the sun came out and the world is new and everything is everything and I am the only person in the world with a smile so bright red? How did we get from last night to this moment without any stories to tell, without any sentences that end with “and then we both started laughing and everything was fine again”?

 

I don’t know how we got here, but this is all your fault. It’s always your fault, and I stand by that statement, standing here next to the chair because I can’t even stay in the chair, the chair is trying to destroy me like you tried to destroy us and it’s all clear now. This is your fault, and I can’t stop smiling at you this way, with my teeth loose which is okay because if they are loose they are still here, they are still in my mouth like I want you to be in my mouth, even now, right now, you and my loose teeth jammed in together behind my red red smile.

 

I don’t know what I’m going to do next, so I’m just standing by the chair I can’t stay in and I’m still smiling because I am certain that if I stop smiling there will never be anything to smile about, ever again, so I can’t stop, not even for an instant because a life without a reason to smile is like fucking with condoms which is why we don’t ever, ever do that.

 

I’m going to stand here until you come back, until you wake up, and tomorrow I’m going to carve our names inside a heart on my arm and pretend that my arm is a tree, and pretend that that constitutes a vow, that that heart on my tree-arm is a wedding without the possibility of escape that divorce or death provides, because I will never let you die without me, I will never let you be without me. Not anymore.

I’m only not knowing that all my strings have been cut when we’re locked in this filthfuck, this grappling in the dirt and the muck that we carry wherever we go. I know I’m a puppet, I know I’m playing games, I know I’m being played, but with your limbs leaving marks I’m forever forgetful for the forever that lasts right up until I get up, take a shower, and go back to the way my life is supposed to be lived. 

 

I keep meaning to lose your number. I keep meaning to lose the need to have you around to make me numb-er. I keep meaning to do a million things I never do, and that this has been an intention for as many as nine years or as few as seven (because time is never linear for me, I have no lucid chronology and this is only one of the ways you know me, the ways you knew me) isn’t terribly surprising. I am almost always fat full of intent and I am also almost always failing. 

 

Every time I crawl out of your car, covered in you, thighs slick with sweat and everything I used to forget that I feel, I am slammed back down to an earth where I am moving precisely how I am told, how I am required. I am set back down, cold, wet, tired and just a little bit less human than I was when I began. 

 

It is these times that I wonder if I am using you for more than the things I know I am using you for. If I have become a mystery even to myself, if I have become such a gifted liar that I am not even capable of telling myself the truth, about this or any of the other stupid and ugly crimes I am always committing, always committed to. It is these times that I think I might be crawling all over you in a desperate attempt to crawl out of me.

I’m going to be happy without you 

                        (you left your name behind)

I’m going to be happy without you

                       (and some of your taste in my mouth)

I’m going to be happy without you

                      (just trying to forget you through fucking and lying, but I end up telling                           him [all the hims]:

                                 Maybe it could been you I was addicted to – your voice and hands.                                    but you never once stole my breath and replaced it with laughter,                                      and the truth is that I’d have fucked any —-  for the chance to                                           whisper his name one more time while sweating. 

                         and somehow things go sideways)

But

I’m going to be happy without you

                         (someday, I’m sure it’ll be true. no fingers fucking for yesterday, no sad                           sad songs while wishing to be sucking silly, no daydream dares to do                             something, oh anything to fix your feeling, no – no you outside of                                     nostalgia nights around a bottle of wine, no, no you.)

 

I’m going to be happy without you.