The escape I seeked seems to have taken over. Bigger than the situation. I was running away, hit a wall, found a secret door. I wish I didn’t enter at times. I wish I could stay inside too.
I fed the escape. Gave it more meaning, more importance than I should’ve. I fed the escape and now it won’t stop eating.
I think I might be trapped. And I’m very afraid.
It was just to see, just to see, all the things you knew, I’d written about you.
But you never came back. Still, you are around. Still, you talk.
The two worlds travel side by side. You are stuck in reality.
I am stuck in the words, again.
Images, moving images. Flying sounds carrying your voice.
I am surrounded by you, separated by the waves.
I made room, too much room when you leave.
One play, one role, one line.
Cut. Let’s get rid of the script, for once.
When the lights go down, when the make up comes off, let’s escape.
Take your path. To my parallel world.
I was walking towards my car in the Home Depot parking lot. I had to buy a few things but walked out emtpy handed. I couldn’t make up my mind, didn’t like anything. I opened the car door, sat in, closed the door. The biggest sigh of my life came out of me like an elephant falling on its side. I looked outside, at the empty carts, the parked cars, the drizzle on the windshield.
-I’m tired of this fucking life. Sick and tired of it all.
Outloud, like that, it came out. No intonation, no emotion. Just a statement that needed to be said. Outloud.
I put the key in the ignition, started the car and pulled out of the parking space. Drove. Stopped at Blockbuster and got Halloween, From dusk till dawn and Ferris Buller’s day off. Drove some more, past my house, around the block, back to my house. Parked. Got out. Walked in.
Got on with my life.
It’s spring now.
*title credit: Jeliel
Même si les tiens sont imaginaires, les yeux des hommes me rendent toujours belle. Après avoir imaginé leur visage se perdre dans le parfum de mes longs cheveux, leur regard s’attarde sur mon visage, mes lèvres qui les invitent, mes yeux verts pleins de promesses. Mais jamais très longtemps, jamais assez longtemps.
Leurs yeux descendent toujours plus bas, où mon corps prends son envol. Là où tout ce qu’une femme désire d’une autre se trouve. Ils voient leurs mains monter lentment de mon ventre vers mes seins, les peser, les caresser, s’émerveiller de leur grosseur. Quand je leur tourne le dos, je ne brise rien de leurs rêveries, je leur laisse plutôt l’image de leurs mains tenir mes hanches, admirer mon cul. Parce qu’il est vraiment admirable. Je l’aime mon cul parce qu’il porte ma vie, il change avec moi, mais toujours il est admiré.
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Mon lit est sous la fenêtre. Le matin quand mon réveil sonne, le soleil me plombe dessus. Je repousse les couvertures. Je m’étire de tout mon long. Je regarde mes beaux orteils colorés, mes pieds, mes petites chevilles, mes grandes jambes. Je sens le soleil chauffer mon ventre et mes seins. Je passe mes mains dessus, je fais durcir mes mamelons. Ils sont tout petits, dans une grande auréole. Mes mains descendent, mes doigts décrivent le contour de mes lèvres, descendent encore un peu. Un doigt trouve son chemin en remontant. Et me donne un sourire pour la matinée.
I was leaning on the washing machine. The one next to my appartment, there for the tenants to use. I was leaning on it because it was shaking so bad I thought it would just go through the wall and end up in the kitchen.
-Do you think it washes better when you hold it like that?
My heart stops. I’m 16. Everything that’s not on purpose is an embarassement.
-Ahhhh, well, no, not really, it’s just really noisy you know?
-Sure!
He’s smiling, turning away from me, facing his door, unlocks it, goes in. Instant combustion. I was on fire, from the embarassement of course. But mostly from seeing him. My mother had told me about him. Our appartment doors were facing each other. The new neighbor. Cute was the word she used. I didn’t have any words. I was in love. 10 seconds, a flushed face.
The following day I found a sheet music for Wrapped around your fingers lying on the floor in the hallway. It could only belong to him, since we were the only two tennants in the basement. I almost knocked, but chickened out and left it stuck in the door knob.
Later, in the evening we crossed each other. I was on my way in, him on his way out. Smile again. Flushed again.
-Thanks for the sheet, I was looking all over for it.
-OhitsnothingIfigureditwasyoursyouknowitwasobviousandIdidnt
wanttobotheryousoIleftitthere.
One big word, shooting out of my mouth at 100kmh, while looking at my shoes.
-Well, thanks anyway!
-Ok. While trying to dissapear so I don’t start to giggle or talk again.
A week or so later. I invite a few girlfriends over, we drop acid and shoot the shit. Then I say my neighbor is really cute. And all this and all that and I go to the bathroom and when I come back to the living room, the door is opened, and two of my friends are chatting up my neighbor… Shittttttt. But he’s cool, invites us over for a beer. He has a couple of his friends there too, getting ready to go out to the club. So we chat and I can see the guys are having fun with us, teasing us, thinking they’re so smart since they’re in their mid twenties and we’re in our mid teens. But Neighbor is looking at me more and more, and I can’t feel that damn acid kicking in at all. Can’t feel much, except the fire.
The guys leave, we go back to my place. Day after, I walk out the appartment. He probably heard me, cause he opens his door and invites me in. The same guys are there, and one of them is getting ready to do a tattoo on Neighbor. So we pick a design, have a few beers, and I’m in love. In love, at 16, with a 24 year old man. We exchanged numbers.
I couldn’t wait. I had to call. A couple of nights later. I asked him if I could come over to tape Pink Floyd’s the Final Cut that a friend lent me. It was mine, I was lying. Of cours Neighbor says, come on over. He knew. He knew why I was calling, knew what was going to happen. But we played innocent for a while. For about five minutes.
Time line: A month of fucking. A breakup that wasn’t one since we were not going out, since I was too young, since he didn’t love me. Three months of me crying, spying on the girls that were coming and going, of listening to the clickclicks of their high heels shoes walking from his living room to his bed room. Six months of more fucking. A breakup that wasn’t one since we were not going out, since he didn’t love me, since I couln’t take it anymore because I did. A month of silence. A phone call. A diner. Ninteen years of life together.
From my fingers
From my eyes
From my heart
Between my legs
All the drips converge. They mean the same thing. Fusion of my fluidity.
I am water. I am blood.
I realize that everything I’ve tried to put into compartments actually belongs together.
The reasons for this, the explanations for that.
The noise… of course it won’t stop. It’s the perpetual garbage truck.
And it’s the drips.
I fucking ache at times.
I fucking leak.
.
Ok. J’essaie. Pas de promesses. Mais c’est une façon comme une autre de perdre ma cerise.
.
.
Just flirting with paranoia. Just sweet talk in my ear.
I’ve created I think.
A space, a time.
Angers, justifies, explains.
The eyes, the minds that judge me.
I am alone, I am surrounded.
I drown within the black of my hopes.
I do not falter under the weight of your good conscience.
I am the center, bullseye on my fingers.
I am love, I am embrace, I am despair, I am sorrow.
I will give until I am emtpy, weather there’s a taker or not.
Je suis ici, ce soir, comme à tous les soirs, à me demander qu’est-ce que je fais? Qu’est-ce qui me fait peur, qu’est-ce qui me drive. Il faut que je trouve. Parce que j’ai besoin de réponses surtout. Rien de défini, rien de coulé dans le ciment, juste une direction.
Je suis ici, ce soir, comme à tous les soirs, à me dire que je devrais faire quelque chose. Que je devrais arrêter d’avoir peur de tout. De moi. De qui je deviens, ou de qui j’étais.
Je me regarde dans le mirroir et je vois ma mère. Et je suis ma mère l’espace d’un instant. Sa bouche, ses yeux, sa démarche, ses soupirs, sa voix. Mais je ne veux pas être elle. Je suis l’image. Ma tête s’infecte lentement de mes doutes.
Je me regarde dans le mirroir, et je vois qui je suis devenue. Belle, dans mes yeux, enfin. La profondeur m’a gagnée, l’âge m’a pris dans ses bras et m’a raconté tout ce que je sais maintenant.
Je suis ici, ce soir, comme à tous les soirs. Et la route s’ouvre, et le chemin se dessine, et mes pas me porteront bientôt. Rien de défini, rien de coulé dans le ciment. Juste une direction.
precarious-mental-stability
possible-massive-savagery
phantasy-man-slaying
positively-mean-spewing
passionate-member-severing
paradoxical-mellow-swerves
perhaps-means-shit
probably-meant-something
posts-mend-spirit