Walking down these holy roads I see the highways come to close, and no one knows just what they know when all the world has come to blows. How much is too much? I'm suddenly so much more vacant and distant... what is that all about? I am reminded very much at attempts to sleep which seemed so forbidden but was evened out by the comforting drone that a promise of even amnesia, surely, could not desecrate.
My mother told me today, when I arrived at her house, that I looked the same way I did when I was little. I had no make-up on and was very tired with hideous bags under my eyes. Perhaps when I was little, the torment was evident so-- now I hide it with make-up that reminds me of shiners and I don't know. Either way, from what she said that I looked 'frail' I can finally understand why some people think I am fifteen and some people think I am in my mid-twenties. Make-up really does do wonders, though I'd rather look younger than older. Also, I was recently told my skin and face looked really beautiful because I wasn't wearing any make-up (which my mother says, which is perhaps why I hate it). Also, I was told I look better when I am 'disheveled' which basically means tired or hungover. This thought plagues me. So whenever I try and look nice, I really look like shit? Only when I am ordinary am I at all appealing? Dismay, dismay.
Me: seeking a taffy pull with the ability to remove all of my muscles, stretch them out, remove all knots, and then to replace them. You: that very taffy pull. There's my personal ad. If I wasn't so against the embrace of all such new-age and trendy notions, I would take up yoga, just to remove the tightness which binds me. Feeling every day as though you're living in a giant corset, only without the benefit of looking divine the way a corset provides, seems unfair to me.
The stringbeans and the slivers and the unwilling livers and the way that my life is a party. Tattoo me with my mantra and I will live happily ever after. Tonight I referred to my drink of choice as 'my prince charming on a raspberry horse'. My roommates say I am predictable but I say it may someday be endearing. Stories of your dead grandparents never start with 'sometimes', they usually begin thus: 'My dead grandfather always...' because of a memory and hopefully when I pass someone will say, 'Katie always...' and finish it in a manner that is not completely insulting. I find it of the utmost disrespect that common bookstores place Mr. Rogers' book of quotes in the self-improvement section. Sure, there are the Nora Roberts and the Jackie Collins, The Francesca Lia Blocks (respectively within, 'teen' and 'romance') but I think that if ever were there to be an honest and justified suicide on my end, it would be to publish a book and have it filed in the 'self-improvement' section. Romance is bad, and teen is disgraceful, but self-improvement, like Him from The Powerpuff Girls is, indeed, the 'evilest of evil'. Self-improvement, like therapy, is bollocks. If those in pain with loved ones in a circle around them telling them that they are worthy and important cannot believe it, what will be gained by a chilly visit in a room with a stranger who regards you with question marks in their eyes? It is gainless. I'd rather dance, I'd rather feel my hair whip against my face drenched in a glad sweat, smile, and raise my arms. I'd like to feel the air now here the way I did there and would give anything for the jingling trinkets that once made everything so worthwhile.
The painful seductress, the wailing reluctance-- the way you took me into your arms and, for just a moment made me see, just me just you it was all right and we would make it through the night. You were there as your window opened to your roof and you finally told me the truth. It was finally absolute. I sat on the couch and listened to a man scream about how everything counts in large amounts. Your dreams make me feel a fraud, make me feel odd, as though I don't know what I want and yet I pursue what is presented at the latest corner. No piercings for me, thanks, there is enough injury as it is although I have learned to sleep without my hoops in. Yet, the seedy deal with nothing of promise is alluring without the strings. However, is there any way that I can ever be certain there are not strings? It's been a joke for so long-- I know this one, I've heard this song. If you want, I can hum it a bit. I can hum and I can sing and I will take what you say, I will belt your requests and continue day after day after day. I'll crawl around atop this olden piano while the old strings are plucked, no old melodies fucked, and now new lovers tucked into the folds of my sheets and I wait and will wait until I feel your release. I dreamt of making love to you in the parking lot and then I realised those dreams were shot, you remained gone and I remained here, I sang alone and finally found it clear-- you were the piano I was supposed to be atop, I was the diva, never meant to stop. You were the bass played while I seduced, and I was the one meant to turn it loose. Loose for you, close for you, all for you.
And for these few seconds I realise that I have time to breathe, you will be here when I return. For these few moments, away from you, I am able to yearn. Yearning for no purpose, my nails along your surface and maybe, just maybe, someday you will value me, too.