word bleed

I need to finish my CRW workshop piece that's due tomorrow.

I need to figure out what time the coffee copy place closes so I can get there and get 19 or is it 20 copies printed

I wonder if Kinko's in open 24 hours; it should be

there were only three parking spaces outside the Kinko's on Franklin Street

I never remember why we went

Yesterday was weird. Today was, is weird.

I'm addicted, I'm reckless, I feel defiant and destructive. I want to feel and experience hurt, I want to fuck and get fucked

up.

It smells like Autumn

outside. Within I am fevered.

And still the wind whispers.

Inside I am squirming. I sit still but am not. I cannot find stillness or peace.

Yet.

Jimbo's was lovely tonight

Great time with Mel, bottomless coffee, and some surprises.

love and light,

S-

Smoking wet cigarettes

head down, small frown, no crown

all’s bare and wet - don’t let

this be all there is here: fear.

While rubber boots slap the ground

umbrella’s up and away, shuttin’ out this town.

Grass is soaked, mind is toked and

eyes like moist marbles, rolling

lungs breath in, mind twists and spins

swims, through the air and water

pours down like tears, fears

of this new place, this new face

What have I become?

more CRW shit; etc

Life has been coming at me non-stop, and I love it. Live fast, die young.

Really though, I need to develop this piece into something a bit longer for my Creative Writing workshop. Any and all criticism or support or ideas would be preesh'd, yo.

-->She touched the tips of three fingers to the warm, puffy area of broken skin that stretched taut over the bone of her eye socket and cursed quietly. Her slim and tattooed arms reached out to support her thin frame against the sink, and she raised her lids, one heavy and dark with swelling, to meet her own gaze in the mirror. She hated the fine strands of hair that hung in a limp frame about her face; she hated the pinkish, mostly-faded acne marks and the way her collar bones jutted out. Sarah felt a discomfort in the center of her stomach which radiated through her body a sensation she couldn’t name. It felt cold, it felt lonely, and it made her body ache in a dead way. She continued to scrutinize herself, her eyes seeming to find plenty of flaws to focus on. She hated the way her freckles blended together in places and resembled blotchy birthmarks, and she hated the tiny gray sun-specks in the whites of her eyes. Somehow thinking only of these, these permanent and virtually unnoticeable imperfections made it easier to avoid the fresh and bloody deformity that now razed her face. The swelling had increased, it seemed, and the space around her right eye was darkening further. She always hated watching this, the bruising process. Bruises didn’t appear on impact, she knew, but rather ripened and swelled visibly like some rotting fruit. The only interregnum in the vast purpling bruise that surrounded her eye was provided by the bloody tears and cuts in her skin. She was too drained from the emotional exhaustion that comes with crying and screaming to feel anything passionate; she didn’t even hate him, she was too tired to. But beneath the exhaustion and beneath the withdrawal she felt as her adrenaline receded and even deeper than that cold feeling of loss and loneliness in her stomach, Sarah felt the need to leave. She needed to get out for good, and she needed to do it today. Because no matter how many times he apologized, and no matter how many times she wondered if maybe she actually deserved it, she knew this was never going to get better. Dean was never going to get better. Sure, it was easy to think that all couples fight, everyone gets angry, and it was with those thoughts that she had appeased herself thus far. Something was different this time, though, whether it was in the way he kept drawing his fist back again and again even as she cowered away or whether it was something insider her that had finally snapped. As she planned to leave, her thoughts drifted almost comically to a country song she’d heard a few times. No, she wasn’t going to go home and load her shotgun and had no intention of showing him that little girls were made of “gunpowder and lead,” but somehow she loved the thought of doing so. She tossed her make-up in her bag, knowing she would need it. She rifled through her closet, grabbing anything else she might ever want to see again. She smiled bitterly and tossed that black eyepatch from Halloween two years ago in to her backpack. Just in case the make-up wasn’t doing the trick, she mused.

She wandered around his house one last time, making sure all of her belongings that had been left here at Dean’s apartment over the years was stuffed safely in her suitcase. Dragging her suitcase behind her and slinging her backpack over her shoulder, Sarah headed for the door. She paused when she glanced in the kitchen. WIth a burst of Miranda Lambert-like need for justice, she rushed into the kitchen. He had always been so particular about his food, and this was her chance to finally help herself to whatever she pleased. Throwing the door to the fridge open, she grabbed the last cold can of PBR. Fuck Dean, fuck all his stupid rules and his possessiveness of her and of his damned beer. This was it. She snapped the pop top and reached for the handle of the door. Damn did it taste good.

home?

We just arrived bak at UNC-W after a very interesting stay in Chapel Hill. Seeing my mom (and little sisters) was probably the best part, and soaking in the hippie-wonderful atmosphere was a close second. It's very different from Wilmington, and being back there almost felt like visiting myself in a former life time...I saw a lot of people from my past who I hadn't really expected to see, but it turned out for the best. Mostly. I don't know what else to say...I'm feeling a bit under the weather emotionally. Cleaning room, organizing, coffee, etc.

Another CRW assignment..?

Memory.

I don’t remember what made us run

that icy morning, but my panicked feet fled

with a speed before unknown to them

into the forest, as that scream ricocheted and echoed

in our minds. The four of us were terrified,

each envisioning the same thing: “the worst”

whatever that meant to each of us.

Though at twelve years old, the very worst thought I could muster

would never be horrific enough, and never came close to the truth,

because I didn’t know what death meant.

So we just rushed on into the forest, convinced

partially by naivete and partially by desire

that if we ran quickly enough we could escape the truth.

Spiny twigs and thorns littered among dead leaves

stung the soft flesh of my bare feet

but failed to slow me. Each painful step on the forest floor

was motivation to keep moving, until reality

put the finishing touches on a simply stunning concrete wall

of realization. It loomed before us and stopped me

dead in my tracks.

Running wouldn’t help, and so I stood

helplessly and unable to cry.

Cold morning air found its way to my lungs

and my feet found their way back home.

I wondered if we had guests, and what poor timing it would to be

for entertaining visitors, when I saw the driveway filled with cars

Until I registered the unmistakable blue markings

and lights on large white vehicles, silent and looming.

There were no sirens, there were no flashing lights, no ambulance.

There was no emergency, in the eyes of the law,

and I know now it was because you were already gone

and stiller than the cold.

I don't know why I remember

the way Iceberg tasted against Swiss cheese after little specks of pepper

had been scattered across the surface

spat from an old wooden grinder that was worn smooth

where your shaking hands held it

The kitchen watched us

creaking in protest to being woken so late.

The knife begged us to go back to bed,

but sliced obligingly into that two-day-old loaf that held us all together

when I muttered I couldn't sleep

just yet

Something about the way I indulged in those simple tastes

and the relish with which I ate my "funny pieces" -

just bits of chopped cheese and deli meats

that you transformed into something delightful

with just your words and your authority of my world then -

made you know how much I loved you,

right?

I should be writing a memory poem, but that's all that'll come

just now.

We'll see what sober morning can come up with tomorrow. Perhaps it'll actually fit the assignment.

9

Winter Turns to Spring

I.

My icy fingers slip inside your sleeve

and nestle between your warm ones. The satin

lining of your peacoat licks my wrist.

I press my nose against you cheek

chilled like marble from the freezing night

and feel the warmth of my breath reflected upon my lips

as I whisper something nice

to watch you smile.

Our breath hangs in the thin air like fog.

My spine bends my head forward against the chill

and my mouth finds the opening slit in a plastic cup,

then seeks the plump softness of your lips.

The heavy warmth of coffee, thickened

with sugar and cream

will linger on my tongue.

II.

A drop of rain shatters like glass against my nose.

It cools the heat rising in my cheeks

like hives, and my eyelids dart open

to reveal the sky, hued peach and lavender

into my retinas.

The breath of a sigh parts my lips

before the sharp edge of my tooth

can sink into the lower one again.

The warmth of a breeze brushes by my exposed skin

as though to remind me of your absence.

Begging mouths in a prickly nest are the only reminders

that the raven’s wings had ever rested with another’s

in a simpler time when branches were bare

and the coal black feathers sheened blue in the moonlight.

hmm

Baby wombats are some of the cutest critters I've seen. I kind of wish I were at the marsupial rescue center somewhere in Australia, nurturing weird furry orphan creatures...I'd really like to be anywhere else right now.

It's not unpleasant here, really. It's just vastly different from being at home and from the routine of high school that I had become so accustomed to. I suppose I'm still adjusting, still figuring out how things work and how to become self sufficient. I've been feeling dissatisfied, a feeling I'm pretty used to. It's a restlessness that seems permanent, and I can't figure out how to keep myself occupied and happy. I have friends whom I love, weekly meetings of the UNC-W Pride group, trips to the Gypsy and other downtown venues, and a genuine interest in most of my classes. Lounging in my lofted bed, nestled in blankets and browsing the internet and watching TV has been my activity of choice (or necessity) lately, though. It's pretty detrimental to my emotional well-being, I fear. All I can do is wish and want and need and mope. Old habits die hard. I can't stop thinking about what used to be, what I used to have, or what I wish I had. I am so lucky, I know that. So many people don't have the opportunities that I do...I am so fortunate. I am very lucky. So why do I feel this perpetual dissatisfaction? I feel so guilty for feeling this way, yet I can't deny it.

I wonder why I've felt this strong yearning for Her lately. It's likely I yearn for the stability, the comfort, and the security that I felt with her. I long for the kind of relationship that we had. That we had. I don't know why it's so difficult for me to comprehend the importance of the tense of that sentence. Past tense. Had. I'll get it eventually I guess.

Anyway.

I need to meet M. for lunch at Wag before going down to Holden for the afternoon. Later I need to write another poem, which I'm looking forward to. Completing my CRW assignments lately has been a pretty great routine. Mmm. :D

More later, perhaps.

Best,

S-