writing blog

Soil, Soil

Sun, 12 May 2013 14:48:00 -0400

My feet fall hard on the hardwood floors as I pace around the downstairs of my house. I walk from room to room, making beelines to any reflective surface within ten feet of me. My heart is hitting firmer than my steps, and quicker. I can feel oceans in my eardrums and static in my fingertips. I wonder if I’ll be able to speak or if the second I open up my mouth, it’ll just be my own tell-tale heart on display.

I try to indiscreetly wait by the window, and upstairs I can hear my brothers playing video games with the volume on full. It’s not so late, but the sky is already dark and clear. Stars like pinholes in a smothering sheet of vacancy. When I see headlights, my brain suddenly goes blank. I’m in disbelief that she actually came, despite the fact she said she would. My anxiety, the only prominent emotion of the moment, forces me to be over-cautious. I head back upstairs, grabbing a laundry basket.

“Do you guys have any clothes for me to wash?” I poke my head in their room. My response is a shake of the head, eyes locked on the screen. I’m suddenly smiling while I race back down the staircase, ditching the basket as soon as I’m out of view. The basement is cold, built with thick stones and old, extinct wood. I lace my limbs in aversion to spider webs and old insulation as I make my way to the rarely used back door.

When the cold air hits me, it gets beaten back by her warmth, arms gripped around my neck, and lips directly in front of mine. I thank her in full kisses, linking my arms around her waist. Her scent is something strange and familiar to me, all at once. Deep, like the woods or damp soil; I want to be able to root myself inside her.

If people are rooms, I left myself unlocked when I met her. What thrills me more, is how complicated it is to find her keys. Some days I think she’s let me in, only for me to find I’ve only walked a few more times around the surface. What drives me crazier is how everyone else seems to delve right inside, while I’m still fumbling for a spare at the welcome mat. If people are rooms, I sometimes think her walls are bare, except for faint outlines of where the sun bleached the corners of something vague. I can tell there are some places where she used to be filled, where now she’s empty. I’m skeptical to whether or not I can fill those gaps.

In those few rare moments when I get a breath of honesty from her, it’s compromised and debilitating. At those times, I know she’s chosen wrong when deciding to be with me and I know that I’m not enough for her. So in the winter chill, I hold on tighter, trying to let myself have what’s not rightfully mine. She’s like soil, because she falls right through my fingers. Because like soil, she’s frozen beneath the snow, and I can hardly scratch the surface.

I shiver; she takes notice, and starts to unzip her jacket.

“No, don’t” I laugh hard and forced, “I’m not going to make you stand outside, c’mon.” I take her back down into the basement, my fingers still locked in hers. We duck our heads under the heavy constraints of old framework.

“Is anyone home?” She asks, wary eyes searching around the room. I lean her against the white metal of the washing machine.

“My mom went out for the night, and my brothers are upstairs,” I try to act confident, but it wavers when my eyes scatter in tension. Her hands wander around my hips, while mine habitually comb through her yellow hair. I move it away from her face, studying her bold features. She was beautiful in a way that was masked under her uncertainty of self. At the roots, I see dark brown defiantly coming through. She tries to steady her eyes into mine and I try to steady my body into hers.

My movements are more curious and lingering, while hers are full of knowledge. I let my fingers trace her lips and my lips trace her fingertips. Her palm finds the small of my back, her leg fills the gap between my thighs. In this moment, I’m so acutely aware of how temporary we are. She is something contagious and ablaze, while I’m slack and steady, like pond water. She could evaporate me all together, unwittingly, underneath my new stagnancy of sudden discovery. Or rather, if she got too close to me, I could put her out - soak her to bare bones with timidity.

“I’m so glad you came” I sigh into her neck, and I can see her in my peripheral sight, smiling.

“Are you kidding?” I feel her vocal chords chiming on my chest, “This is the kind of teenage rebellion I live for, what makes these years so great. I’m a sucker for clichés.”

As if on cue, a door slams above us. I jump a bit, and she moves herself defensively. I try to shrug it off. “It’s probably just my brothers,” I denote passively “But my mom might be coming home soon”

“I wish I could stay the night, with you.”

“I wish you could too.”

“But I’ll head out.”

“I’ll walk you to your car,” I offer up, regretting the implication she should leave.

“No, Jesus, you’re wearing short sleeves, you’ll freeze.”

“I’ll survive.”

“You can walk me to the door,” She smiles, and I want so badly to believe her concern is authentic. At the back door, I kiss her again, longingly. And as I watch her walk away into the dark, the scent of earth still lingers on my clothes.

"She asked me if it was possible To love two people at the same time I said, of course You should..."

Sun, 05 May 2013 10:17:00 -0400

“She asked me if it was possible
To love two people at the same time
I said, of course
You should always love someone
Who makes you love yourself
There are too many destructive times
When you love someone more than yourself
Or love yourself more than who you’re with

But I knew what she meant
When she asked if it was possible to love
Two people at the same time
And I said, of course

It just makes me wonder if she’s capable
Of loving herself at all”

- Cheating

"1Write a love poem about how Your skin peels off in the sun About the layer of new self..."

Mon, 29 Apr 2013 02:04:00 -0400

“1

Write a love poem about how
Your skin peels off in the sun
About the layer of new self underneath
And how renewal is enduringly beautiful
And perseverance of self is fuckable
If anyone calls you vain
Thank them

Only tell people you love them
When you’re both naked, and vulnerable
And no matter how adoringly
You string those words
They’ll sound like a threat
To someone not ready to hear them

Don’t try to kiss boys, they’re too easy
And smell like chemicals
Real bravery,
Is sleeping with soil
And to only smile, when spiders crawl
Over your lips

Only tell yourself acceptance
When you are naked,
And you are ugly
Say it with an honesty that breaks bones
That breaks physical barriers
The first time you say it, you’ll recoil in fear
The last time you say it,
You’ll recoil with ecstasy

”

- How To Fall In Love (via poelar)

"(When stars die, they turn into supernovas) I could only ever watch the fireworks from a..."

Mon, 22 Apr 2013 02:02:35 -0400

“(When stars die, they turn into supernovas)
I could only ever watch the fireworks from a distance
When I wanted to be the fire that lit them
I can’t think of a more volatile and temporary
Way to be displayed
I wanted to be there when you erupted
(Then they turn into black holes)
After the finale,
My voice seemed to lose its range
And I had to strain my eyes
To see against the rawness of night
Everyone went home, to sit in the quiet
I’m still trying to pick up your ashes
(Black holes, aren’t actually holes
Just dense matter
That doesn’t allow any light
To escape)”

- Black Holes (via kiyotes)

"I leave my window open in the summer, And I wake up cold, with dew in my hair Finding bug bites..."

Sun, 21 Apr 2013 23:57:16 -0400

“

I leave my window open in the summer,
And I wake up cold, with dew in my hair
Finding bug bites along my body,
That I could trace into constellations

No one wants to lie in tall grass anymore
Because the ants will cling onto your body hair
And bees like the scent of your shampoo
And you confuse ticks for freckles

You don’t want to know what it’s like
To be tethered to the earth, because
You can’t sacrifice your clean cotton
To the dirt it grew from

You stay in the shallow water
Where you can see the bottom,
And move your feet around
The hermit crabs
When you brush your knee against
Brine,
Your body defends itself

In the summer, I keep my window closed
To keep the A/C in,
my sheets are like ice
Against a sunburn that I don’t have
(It’s important to preserve yourself)

”

- On Being A Landmark

"1 I’ve been writing poems like apologies I am an atheist with “Only god can judge me” Tattooed on..."

Tue, 09 Apr 2013 01:23:00 -0400

“

I’ve been writing poems like apologies

I am an atheist with “Only god can judge me”

Tattooed on my chest,

Because it was the cheapest ink

I could soak into my skin.

I’ve been writing poems like apologies

Everything that my lungs ever gave birth to

Was a lie or an excuse

To anyone to would give me a chance to

Tell them how much I care

I’ve been writing poems like apologies

My mom told me swearing isn’t ladylike

But it breaks barriers with the ladies I like

I’ve been writing poems like apologies

I’m afraid of echoes

Because they’re empty responses

And you’re a cave, hollow and dark

(I can never get all the way through you)

So I don’t know how to expect anything else

I am a believer with “Jesus is a cunt”

On the back of my shirt for shock value

I’ve been writing apologies like poems

”

- I’m Sorry

"1 we planted the seeds, over decomposition but the affect was more infective than..."

Mon, 25 Mar 2013 01:16:00 -0400

“

we planted the seeds, over

decomposition

but the affect was more infective

than therapeutic

locking the gate

was futile.

dandelions always

seem to use the wind to their

advantage

ambivalence is the name,

of the bud

that came up from the soil

we sowed into

dust

pollination barely polluted

our cheeks

before our petals opened

forced and crooked

from curiosity

”

- Why Our Garden Failed (via poelar)

3/7/13

Thu, 07 Mar 2013 16:37:00 -0500

So close to creation, I feel like death

(Lucidity is evaporation for

The sheen on my chest)

This procession is possession

I can feel your ghost escape in sighs

My breath leaving in peace with sin

And the holiness between thighs

So close to creation, god is obsolete

And I am the hedonist that lives

Beneath blessed defeat

The Art of Being a Scarecrow 2/19/13

Tue, 19 Feb 2013 21:23:09 -0500

My bones are hollow and I easily go up in flame

I think I’d be a good scarecrow

I’ve mastered the art of watching the things I live for

Fly away

I just wish I wasn’t so standstill when it happened

My bones are hollow and I wish I didn’t

Go so easily up in flame, when the sun starts beating down

If the crows don’t come, I’ll rot instead

While the corn rises up out of what’s found

III

My bones aren’t hollow, the marrow is thick

And my skin blisters in the sun

I’ve mastered the art of watching the things I live for

Fly away

I went after them, with everything I had

They moved on, regardless

IIII

My bones are thick and I stay in the shade

While the crows pick the field dry

I don’t try to go out there, because they might

Fly away

And when they do, tell them I tried

(But moved on, regardless)

Claremont Ave (Short Story/Final Draft)

Fri, 01 Feb 2013 07:42:00 -0500

hikikoomori:

Kristen’s house burned down in 2011, and ever since it’s been a solemn watermark on Claremont Avenue. The once light blue paint was now stained and dirty, the roof caved inward—a soggy membrane draped over the charred wood framework. The windows are decorated with warning papers and government documents that act as welcome signs to the few who knew her. They’re unpleasant indicators, evidence of anguish, and oh-so inviting for my own nostalgia.

Darren and I are parked across the street, watching it carefully, as if any minute, a gust of wind will blow it over. Instead, I guess it would only be appropriate for the universe to let the leftovers disintegrate before our eyes, just as everything else had. I try to catch Darren’s eye, but his gaze is fixed on the radio, turning the volume up one notch at a time, carefully rocking the small Oldsmobile with some ambiguous Pearl Jam song. I make a bold move by reaching over and switching it off, abruptly testing the waters between us. Without acknowledging me once, he gets out and I hear that rhythmic snow-against-leather sound. I watch him cross over to the dilapidated suburban ranch. It’s almost twenty degrees and he’s wearing nothing but a thin, black and white plaid shirt, impressively monochromatic in the winter landscape. I wait until he disappears into the dark behind the building, count to ten, and then follow. I’m barely at the lawn before I see headlights coming in from behind me. I stand against the frame of the house until I feel her fingers lacing through my own.

“Hey” I hear the soft voice right by my ear. She doesn’t really need to whisper, but it feels appropriate.

I know I shouldn’t leave Darren alone in there by himself for long, knowing that he has it so much harder than the rest of us. I can’t help myself though, and bury my face in Emma’s neck. My chest rips open and I let out an ugly, dry sob, which seems to echo into the night. I watch the condensation color my mangled breaths and feel her arms snake around my waist, inside of my coat. I rest there for a moment, even though my body is trembling, between some mix of desperation and cold. We head down into the basement, Kristen’s basement, the only part of the house still fully intact.

The basement used to be a place of refuge, a place away from our own chaotic lives that provided a sense of normality. The contrast to the present reality is almost nauseating. The basement, as I remembered it, was whitewashed and filled to the brim with random, useless possessions. Her parents were border line hoarders, so sometimes you could find something really interesting under the piles of old books and VHS films. There was always a Playstation, some overstuffed armchairs, and enough junk food to keep us satisfied for days. And every now and then, we did stay for days, because our families never really cared where we ended up.

The basement was empty and gray now, the concrete floor was slick from melted snow, dripping in from the floorboards above. The only thing left inside were piles of wet cardboard, a few broken electronics, and an old futon. I walk through carefully, inspecting every corner and crevice of the seemingly unfamiliar tomb, and my voice catches out of fear when I hear the sound of an aerosol can behind me. Emma catches me on the small of my back, and guides me over to the damp futon mattress, dark green with Asian lettering designed down the front.

My eyes are adjusted to the pitch blackness, and now I can see Darren, spray can in each palm. He looks like the protagonist in an early western, and the look on his face is one just as concentrated, and anxious. His backpack is fully open on the ground, cans of different brands and colors are pouring out, rolling around his feet. What he’s doing isn’t graffiti, or vandalism: it’s art. Everything Darren has ever done is art, and within these past three years, it’s all been for Kristen. They had a relationship that was routed deep, a groove so embedded that they could’ve known each other in a past life and I wouldn’t be fazed. We’ve all known each other for so long, that our emotions and stories are no longer conveyed through words. We can translate any message through small actions and sideward glances. And now as we sit in the quiet, and the dark, the only sound is compressed air. The truth hangs front of us like billboards on the highway, each advertising the same dismal thing.

Emma puts her head in my lap, and I run my hands through her hair, and tracing the frame of her face. She takes my finger tips and brushes them against her lips, her lashes fluttering around large brown eyes. It’s a strangely intimate moment, interrupted quickly by Darren, “Are you guys about to start making out? I don’t want to turn into a third wheel.”

Emma responds playfully, “We were feeling like second and third wheels to your one man show over there!” Cracking a smile, it seems that Darren has forgiven and forgotten the original tense infrastructure of our evening. On a roll, she unzips her backpack and reveals a variety of snacks, laying them out around us like a buffet. It really makes me think sometimes, the way that Emma deals with things. Everyone has their issues and baggage, so why not provide snacks and tell good jokes? Maybe she’s onto something.

I laugh, shaking my head in disbelief at this girl. All she does in return is reach in my pocket, and pull out my iPhone. “Darren!” she calls, “Which playlist of Noelle’s should I pick? This angsty one, or this sad one, or this angsty sad one?” Darren sets down his spray cans, having just noticed the unopened bottle of Mountain Dew sitting to my left.

“I think” He says, as he reaches around me to grab the bottle “We should choose the sad angsty one, and switch it up.” He takes a large swig, and grins. “Excellent choice!” Emma beams as she cranks up the volume to let Morrissey’s wistful, lo-fi vocals take over the mood of the room. “The Smiths? That’s original!” He teases while going back to healing the scarred concrete. I watch as Darren stacks color after color on the wall, so intentional in every swing of his arm and twist of the wrist. It’s Emma who first hears the car door slam; she bolts up to quickly turn off the music. We wait and listen for any other sounds. For almost a minute, there’s nothing, but Darren still makes a move to push his cans to a back corner, behind a crate. I take Emma’s hand, guiding to her to sit by me, and squeeze it. “It could just be a neighbor” I say in a hushed tone, but she shakes her head. I know it as well, it’s too close. The question is, do we try and leave, or do we wait to see what happens next?

We’re deer in headlights. Suddenly, there are footsteps crunching in the snow, sounding off an alarm. Darren seems to make his decision, and steadily moves toward the steel door. “Darren” I say, although my voice is low enough where I’m sure he couldn’t hear me. From my angle, I can only see the tops of a blue-gray uniform and hear the vocal residue of an authoritative voice. It’s so anti-climactic, he just leaves. No handcuffs, body slams, or bullets. I can trace their motions across the property, and when I hear the car door slam again, I pull Emma toward the exit.

Everything at once is sped up and slowed down, we are half jumping and half falling over picket fences and hedges, all the while thoughts are pulsing through my mind. They’re about my friends and their well-being, about the voice directly behind us but not attempting to follow, about wanting it to be three years ago when everything was easy. About being grateful it’s not two years ago, and that things are getting easier. We’re running as always, but our bodies are adjusting to the impact of our falls and the shortage of breath. We can’t see where we’re going, but our eyes are slowly adjusting to the lack of light.

Outside a large empty warehouse, we rest, not saying anything to each other. In the distance, there are sirens. There’s Darren sitting in the police car, probably smug with sacrifice and loyalty, because the cop had gotten there too late to disturb his high. Inside that empty shell of a home, his mark was stained internally. Maybe he had expected this, and Emma and I were only collateral damage he deemed worth saving. I wonder if he found resolution in this night, Emma and I’s shared glances are sick all at once with concern and our own preservation. We don’t know where to go from here.

(Addressing The Subject) 1/29/13

Tue, 29 Jan 2013 19:09:00 -0500

(Addressing The Subject) 1/29/13:

poelar:

I know I’m melodramatic, you’ve told me before

Because I’m fresh meat, and the butcher

Keeps pounding on me, tongue and liver

(Why does he do it when I’m already so tender?)

I’m sorry I yelled at you, and cursed

I’m sorry I hurt my throat and that I hurt your pride worse

And I’m sorry the shade of your eyes makes my stomach turn

The sea just always seemed so unforgiving

I know I’m over-dramatic

It’s because everything is happening at once

And I fell in love with that butcher,

(Even though I’m a vegetarian)

Because those dark eyes seemed so warm

and apologetic

How I felt on 1/22/13

Tue, 22 Jan 2013 00:46:32 -0500

kiyotes:

Somewhere between loss and gain

Is self-indulgence

Because I want both, but can’t

Quite condone it.

And I need to suffer enough,

To help me feel alive

But then again, I need to strive

And I need you to be attainable

Because somewhere in the gestures

And attractive lies and

(Truthful) whispers just below a sigh

Of all the things we want to make

Each feel-

Inside each other

And beside each other

Because you’re gain, and I’m loss

And this is self-indulgence

1/11/13 (haiku)

Fri, 11 Jan 2013 01:20:00 -0500

kiyotes:

sometimes in sunlight

her eyes are every color

blending into me

12/31/12

Mon, 31 Dec 2012 16:27:00 -0500

kiyotes:

I am lacking sustenance

like diet, off-brand, synthetic

To someone who’s already out of rehab

I am here, only to fill the spaces in-between

a bad habit,

a routine

speculation (I/II/III/IIII)

Sat, 29 Dec 2012 21:29:20 -0500

speculation (I/II/III/IIII):

I don’t really believe in fate,

but circumstance

seems to be egging me on quite a bit

And I used to believe in a god,

now I have theories

about truth, and it’s relativity/absoluteness

No, I don’t really believe in

true love, like romcoms you can buy on HBO

with kisses in the rain, and quirky female leads

but I do believe in the rain

and kissing you

and females leading me into

love that is absolutely truthful

III

I get a rush

from knowing, it’s not preconceived

knowing that I could always stay

or I could choose to leave

or I could see the most intimate corners

of strangers on the streets

IIII

I don’t really believe in

(fate/truth/lies/god/love)

anything

until I see these things

laid out, mapped

along the creases in your skin

and the quiver in your lip

purgatory

Mon, 17 Dec 2012 00:14:51 -0500

kiyotes:

wanting to sink

because the strain is aching

wanting to float

because my lungs are quaking

thermal

Mon, 17 Dec 2012 00:14:37 -0500

kiyotes:

the wood is swelled with summer

and I can’t open the doors

they jam and cling to their frames

I as well, have been expanding

and meandering in thought

giving into other voices and

sucking in the heat of their octaves

And as I broaden

I wonder if at some point

I will no longer be as easy to open

like oak doors during dog days

and what will be locked inside

for evan

Mon, 17 Dec 2012 00:12:54 -0500

kiyotes:

by the pond, and everyone

in our suburban town

is speaking spanish

I feel as fluent as ever

arms streched out and backstroking

with all my clothes on

while you watched from the grass

you said I’m an inch off

from what I’m supposed to do

you said I’m unexpected

I just can’t tell if it’s a compliment

or an insult

or true

Mornings, I don't leave the street 10/14/12

Mon, 17 Dec 2012 00:06:00 -0500

kiyotes:

Straying, animals and people.

And the slow crawling of transportation in enclosed neighborhoods

Not unlike insects, scurrying for shelter in the daylight

With wet pavement from the rain, the night before

Remnants of parted memory, still seeping above ground

Soon to be both unavailable and sought after

As people continue to persist forward in patterns

In which I usually partake

But this morning, I’m an observer, a foreign object of translation.

Watching the strays fill the spaces in between.

Quiet

Sun, 16 Dec 2012 23:57:00 -0500

kiyotes:

Empty air is dew and small inclinations

With residue of working thoughts

While silences drips off your skin

It’s a comfort to a brain in knots

So while I unwind all that I am

Beauty seeps out of pores we cover

Don’t feel the need to move from where the still stands

Because interest comes in things yet discovered

I know those syllables you want to chime

All those stories you forgot you knew

I want to hear them all sometime

But for now just let the quiet hang over you