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2007-11-12 - 2:34 a.m.
Carve these wings into my back. Carve them so deep, the cuts starve with a lack of oxygen. Wings don't have to consist of feathers and wax to be real, you know. If I cried, you could use the salt for saving the memories. They say salt can save anything. Take to heart what I'm saying, these are the words I've been saying for years. I'll wear memories of you as an amulet, and maybe the charm will be worth the wait. If I dare paint the stars, they wouldn't shine nearly as bright. I suppose it's fortunate that I'm too cowardly to do anything about the condition of the stars. I look in through your windows to see mementos from the past, lights on, but you're too busy decoding messages to hear my voice call out to the stars. If this is enough for you, I wouldn't know what to say anymore.
If I died, would your voice catch, would your heart break? I remember standing in Verona, looking up where Juliet stood, thinking of you, vowing in my mind to write you a love letter that evening. I wrote our initials in the dust of ancient Pompeii, but I'm sure they withered away under the volcanic memories by now. It was months ago anyhow and lifetimes more. I used to keep my folded-up suicide note in a messenger bag until a friend stopped her fingers along it and asked what it was. I brushed it off as a letter, something private not to be read. She hesitated, then pulled her hand away like the letter was singed at the edges, and I had burned her.
I have a star tattooed on my hipbone, it's supposed to symbolize the wonderous imperfections, the beauty of forever. I saw a planet the other night when forever seemed more distant than the light year's away stars I cast my gaze upon. I wanted to be beautiful, but I know you're just using words when you say I'm beautiful when I cry. My eyes are too bloodshot for that, and I'm not beautiful when my face is clear of saline tears.
I wonder how long I can last before your gazes are no longer soft on me. I worry at times you're going to fall out of love with me, but keep pretending because we're both scared shitless. I keep my jewelery in a box of yours because my box didn't travel well. I wonder when I can wear that white dress with eyelet lace and when I'll feel pretty again. I sit at this computer, watching the minutes being swallowed by the second hand, wondering whatever happened to the people who promised to be friends with me until the day I die in high school. He says he's afraid to call anyone best friend because all his best friends left him, I know what he means, but this one, the one who lies in sheets of black and who I long to hold, has held on for longer than I'm used to. I've taken to wearing jackets with only a bra underneath, it makes me feel pretty maybe or something else, I don't really know how to identify how it makes me feel.
I want to write poetry again, but I'm in a mode of fiction, which is at a standstill anyhow. I know I can pick up, but right now, all the words that are coming are autobiographical. I want to work on my short story so I can finish, so I can begin again, so I can perhaps edit. So I can pehaps improve.
Improve is just a few letters away from improvise, and we've been improvising our lives all along. She said our route wasn't normal, we always joke we're not conventional, but nobody laughed when she said it. I wanted to defend you, to leap to your aid, but I knew this was your battle, and I was out of place. I heard the insults aimed at me, those don't even phase me, but when someone aims an arrow at you, it takes a shit ton of self-control not to comment. Stop the act. Drama never treated you well.
Me.