{crack dreams.}

preface: i keep reading these little ads at the edge of the internet page that read "charles bukowski ring tones" and i don't understand. it's raining.

let's regress.

it's falling too fast to be snow. and some day. someone. will read all these books. and i'll know i love them. for the act, i'll give myself. i will be all theirs. all the kids will stop drinking. all the dogs will be set free. no one will care either way about how the world began. we'll know what to do.

one of the longer days. called mother. need a stiff drink. "only one," she says over the phone. brought by satellite. okay. and five later. at the gay bar to see some DJ. i don't care. and i don't like gay bars. i feel totally unneeded. not because i have a vagina. but because, and for reasons i've accumulated, gay boy bars seem more to me like meat markets than regular bars. all the guys know each other and are consistently and constantly preoccupied by the prospect of fucking. so any conversation or personal interest i have is impeded upon by this occurrence. also, i generally like men, so going to a gay bar makes me feel stupid. because of my overall attraction to so many different types, i feel foolish. especially at this point in my life. earlier in the night, i had devised a code word to verbalize at the moment i decided it was time to leave said bar and go home. the friend i was with informed me that i should just tell her when i was ready to go, however, i wanted a secret code. the word of choice was "jumanji." i had already said the word, and was waiting for fifteen minutes to go home, so that i might take a bath while beating my head across the wall. because i have no self-control, and these instances that strike me tend to resonate for hours. or until i go to sleep, if i'm lucky. waiting at the table until i've just about had it. i seek her out, towards the bathroom. seeing her. handing a sweater. we leave. accompanied by some man named Jeff. he talks a lot. and gradually i am informed that we are taking him somewhere. his care, home, i'm not sure. i drive my friend's care after having 5 or 6 vodkas on the rocks with lemon. which isn't too much. vodka leaves me very coherent somehow. but the three of us are talking as we drive. rather Jeff is talking very much, as i give little bits of information or advice. but the conversation is confusing. he's telling me all about his life. so many details. very. quickly.


automatic teller machine.
a time to kill. boom.
fix your ears. we're leaving. now.
get in the car.
wrap up your conversation
with the fabricated people of thought.
dreams make bad scenarios.
i don't understand. i saved my money.
mixtape. for myself to remember
all the instances of life.
they were all there. was i alone then?
with van morrison? steve reich? daedelus?
maybe. i can't tell at this point.
possibly ever. but i can tell you
who wasn't invited. alice in chains.
stop eating. save yourself. run.
there was that imaginary guy drunk
at that made-up bar in the south
who splashed a glass of beer on my leg
while i played love songs on guitar.
the teacher in cleveland.
who followed me home from the bar.
and saved me from those drunk dudes.
we had sex in my apartment.
made our love a secret. jeff mangum.
my dog artax. my cat falcor.
so now i have to stop dreaming in my wake.
and quit the words i know i'll never say.
to save myself.
live in reality.
come down. from the clouds.
next to the megatouch. here we are.

waiting for me means getting drunk. can i wait that long..
this is my plan:

1)we will see no wine before its time.

2)up up and away

3)for the long run

there you have it.
help yourself.
save. get out. make new.


i love you because...
i didn't want you to be a mistake.

too tired to go on.

{grow up.}

stop dreaming. get your head out of the clouds. you're ridiculous.

{ growl. }

would i have felt this way when i was younger? am i so old now. it's constantly hard to tell. i've consumed myself, and am now stuck in this rutt. no longer learning as easily as i would have. had none of this ever happened.

fat lip.

{wrong pipe.}

a little more light hearted. soon all the secrets of the universe will be unfolded to me. i'll be reborn from dust. lanterns lit and lifted towards the memory of what was a constant attempt. the star-crossed love affairs sink down the dingy drain of forgotten lust. the seventh sun shall be dressed in pink and purity. a safer face next to a lighter tunnel. and a solitary beckoning for solitary confinement finally seals the proverbial deal. say what you will with accusations abounding. the supposed conclusions you've drawn about my presence. my childlike frenzies. the slamming of doors and constant requests for kisses on the mouth. your world was not made for the likes of me. thank god and hallelujah. i'll get fucked up on my own account. alone and so sweetly. like a lamb to the slaughter that it made for itself. the rain comes down as it ever did. and what i'm getting used to i cannot abide. the nights need lonely customers. and beds were made for sleeping. heated bodies have breathed heavy within me. none of which my own. and when these ghostly evenings come, i'll be waiting, gun in hand in mouth. for that moment when it becomes painfully apparent that i want none of this. your frequencies are deafening. your bodily fluids worthless. i can dive down in myself and pull out a soggy liver. make beautiful babies to breastfeed in the sun. and the fragrance you're emitting passes by and makes me wonder, right before it makes me heave. i barely see any worth in me, and i'm trying very hard to make my life work.

{wrong pipe.}

it took two months for the fog to clear. which turned into an even thicker fog.

{i'm done.}

people are ridiculous. especially the ones i care for most. i'm trying to quit smoking and drinking, and failing at both. so i guess if i were trying to quit not failing, i'd be winning. there's my silver lining.

beyond the silver lining, i'm at work, trying to kill time before i have to deal with seven 5 year-olds. and then a fire drill. we'll see how that goes. on top of it all, i really have to crap. it's brewing inside me in that way where you think your phone is vibrating, but it's just your insides.

also, a staff member just walked into this room to make copies. i clicked away from my blog page, and onto my "sign out sheet for PVS aftercare" spread sheet, which i finished ten minutes ago. i tried to act busy, by deleting words and re-typing them. for some reason it seemed like a big deal. but thinking about it now, i don't know why i felt so deviant.

even now, as people walk in, i click away from this page, as though i were looking at porn.

{savannah.}

back south. no mothers came tonight. there was no quitting, only premonitions. what can be within the absence of letting go. when you speak supposed truths about how all is so well. here no one can tell. because no one is listening. and i only see myself reaching. my hand was over your mouth in anticipation. just to feel the vibrations of thought reaching its way to the throat. the lack of satisfaction swayed me, as though i might turn to dust, were i not to move. then rubbing pathetic, bitten legs. if i can just keep moving. if i can make myself live in a constant state of newness. i sang along. and softly felt a face i wished to be my own. there's a dream some of us share. and a way of being which seems to please. let us not be too hasty. i want to do my dreams. and all the things i thought i knew once. in a time where nothing seemed too far from reality. despite intensity.

the area codes i've memorized in passing times. soot from my lungs has crept up and gathered me secretly. although i always told everyone. in an attempt to show a sense of intimacy. the tar and poisoning of love, an actuality. i'd say, that if you only knew my heart, you'd hate me, knowing how often i contemplated everything that's already happened. a great fault.

the streets grew narrow and so soon they where long trodden. i knew. i was not meant for such a world. i knew. but kept along a path so sedating, i could hardly remember a point in which my life lacked such a fog. fog that breaks the breathing of a young woman. well, if world is what you make of it then i am lost and dreaming. tell me i am lonely child and wanting life too real. a wrong and wriggling soul suspended by my own disbelief. and there is no succumbing to the state in which i've placed myself.

there will be.

an additional epoch
gathered.

it is good to be enchanted. to go away.

i can't help but see the night.
when we lie together.

{buckle down.}

it's time to drink. we've bunkered down with beer. burnt by the cold. i've got an agenda. it's the friday night cuddle-up. with me and my booze. we're fanning away all the lost thoughts that seem to rise up. this drunk kid keeps telling me how beautiful i am.

{my kid.}

[9.24.07]

never in my wildest dreams. speak easy. calm down. don't take a nap. in the hot heat bath water. daydreaming about today and tomorrow. and all the finer things. separating the mother and the father. keeping them close. and calling out. surrounded by strangers, feeding them dinner, letting them talk. to you and the time. having a midnight stroke, face half swollen, ears popping. spider bites and full-blown aids. everyone speaks of loosing love. everyone has theirs. i have mine. it's gone. let's forget about it. i don't want to hear it. there is far too much talk of things that don't matter. don't make it worse. you are making it worse. when i am doing the dishes in the morning. making recommendations. being playful and disregarded. by hangovers and unbathed babies. be so gentle as to not care. there are no men anymore. just the remnants of this idea i concocted when i was thirteen. it resonates sometimes when i watch films. when my eyes wander across the street. there is no one. anywhere.

{so who is this again?}

cleaning tirades. the focus keeps shifting onto the less important things. like the cupboards. and what's in them. and how. the rices goes in between the beans and the flour. tea on the bottom shelf, as it is most often used. easy access is key. initially i was hungry. and searching for food somehow translated into tearing the kitchen apart. finding cake mix. i should bake a cake. and make some pies. not for my own consumption, but for the sake of productivity. i had an agenda once. a list of things to do. i lost it somewhere along the line.

today is overcast and cold. my roommate is stoned and giggling. i glance at her, and she tells me to shut up.

i keep daydreaming. mostly about sex. but only with imaginary people. who don't exist. i didn't take my vitamins today. i should do that.

not that i want to have sex at all. the level of intimacy i might be able to conjure would be equivalent to shaking hands. and i don't want to fuck. or be fucked. the notion disgusts me.

{looking good for nothing.}

wearing high heals around the house for hours. while doing the dishes, dancing and singing with too much conviction for silverware to stand. sporting clip-on pearls and a strapless black dress laden with cigarette burns. done up like a novelty dude ranch in alaska. these hands were made for dangling fake wedding bands. and at night, after a few cocktails and enough cigarettes to make your grandmother jealous, crawling into bed to write down the momentary notions you have about love. the nothings you never had about love. you could write letters with a quill and the wet mascara bleeding from the underneath of eyes. it so so sad. so you write it down. do your nails. and go to sleep dreaming about some russian man you made up. falsely wandering through the fabricated world, the one seen in the second-hand copies of national geographic, and getting attacked by wolves. you fell to pieces. and now search the closets, cabinets and cupboard drawers, scour the pots and pans, for someone to really love you. with such an equivalent love. enough to drive you into a madness. someone who understands, and finds your neurosis to be endearing.

{...}

i am very tired. this feeling keeps taking over.

{teach you how to drink.}

the night always slows down
to an internal rumble
between every thought

i am slowly ceasing
with every cigarette
and the bottle bleeds within me now
around four o'clock

it seems
i want it so badly
to continue making efforts
towards not existing

forget to weep
sleep in silence

but before the inevitable crumble into dreams
i make a bed of booze
and write down little saying
wonder where the phrases come from

the men try to take my things
i walk away disappointed
wanting them to have bloodied me up
leave me as less than i was before we met
give me something to suffer for
i make the best things when i am sad

we speak
and i always say too much
as i've been drinking
been downing the bottles again
even when in poverty i cling
to the stink
and think to myself
i haven't had enough tonight
to please my sorry heart
there is much to be done

and as i said
i loved you still
even when you woke
to the differences within yourself
i loved each one
and every thought
all the sadness that you uttered
in your moments
next to me in bed and drunk
you taught me how to drink
but only after absence

{so.}

i live in portland now. how about that. or at least, this is where i am right now. we don't have a home yet, but we hopefully will by thursday or friday. i've been smoking like a chimney. and trying to be more confident, a department of mine that has been lacking. usually i don't care too much, but being in a new place, and my propensity to space out leave me completely confused upon the arrival of any foreign human contact.

i was about to go into a list of my hopes and dreams, but i don't think i'll be doing that right now. i'm ALMOST done with my journal. the one i've had for a year and a half now. i hate it. i want it out of my sight. someone send me a new journal to fill. a plain one. of any colour besides red or black or blue. yellow would be nice. also green. and let me press again that it should be absolutely plain! send me an email, and i'll give you an address. thanks in advance.

also, i am afraid of buses. a lot. but i rode one today all by myself.

additionally, i don't have my headphones, and it's really sad. i want them so badly.

{forget it.}

i have more music than i know what to do with. i've tried to dedicate this night to organizing it. but no. there's just no way on earth that can happen. it's very frustrating. i'm on absolute overload.

{it's awfully quiet around here.}

i sold my car today. for five hundred fifty dollars. many things have happened in that car. i'm kicking nostalgia. i've been really angry lately. violent mood swings. from feeling terribly hurt for no reason, to having a sudden intense impulse to ram my car into the guy who just cut me off in traffic. thank god i sold my car, i guess. my blood is boiling. it's just sad. it's a sad time still. to feel you've spent time cultivating friendships, only to find out it was for naught. or that clearly, people don't give enough of a shit to take care of their end of the friendship. i want nothing to do with this. i could explain my feelings until my fingertips bleed, but that would be just as pointless. my vagina is a ticking cancer time bomb. the sickening self-righteous are making their beds to sleep in. i care for them, but will inevitably despise them. it doesn't matter how you say it, no one will listen. and me, all i want to be is alone. my next move on the board will be to disappear completely. that's what i'm getting ready for. i used to think i had some potential. now i just hope i can have kids. and somehow get by.

{max out.}

everything i hate about myself comes to an oily head. the things that don't get done. and the things to fear the most. resting in my lap. like the child i never wanted. a steaming pile of my own shit.

i've been drinking these cure-all elixirs. taking hand fulls of pills and vitamins. supplements. to counteract a home brewed madness. there's a lot to be said for the friends that make you better.

i'm an empty bombshell. the remnants of epiphany after epiphany gone wrong. so all that's left is the casing of a great idea disregarded, broken and soaking into the carpet. let's get it right this time please.

you have to understand i'm getting very tired of all this. and my body is revolting. this is a cave-in, the last stand of a sorry self that didn't last nearly as long as i thought she would. so we're folding. dying differently than we have before. and for real this time. the brink of death has metaphorically always been so close. and we longed for it. but when it catches to your skins for real you come to know what life could be. and everything you're doing wrong. over and over again. our problems don't define us. they should re-define us. everytime they boil up and over the edge of my thoughts. we can't block this one out forever. i'm only human you know.

{larvae.}

some days i feel like i'm full of alien larvae. today is one of those days. here is a pictorial representation.

{ghosts and ghosts.}

{bad lands.}

you can dream. you can do whatever you want and who's to say you're ever wrong there's nothing wrong with you pace yourself don't just jump the gun this time it should be contemplated take it easy relax we're in a hurry here ohio and that's okay too and when the dogs are lying around the house looking bored and less than desperate you'll know it's time to go it's time to go and that's okay because you're okay and things are not okay but whatever. it's time to stop and it's time you realized you know yourself better than anyone else that's truth and it's bringing you to tears but hey sometimes it takes a little while to solve the problems you've accumulated get the fuck out of my way i'm walking here can't you see this is my side of the street and the kids'll never listen when you're screaming in their ears and the kids will never listen when you stay quiet all the time because honestly, the kids don't really give a shit about anything but the kids and you shouldn't bat an eye over anything but yourself i'm gonna be better i'm gonna be better and do right and right now bad habits are the hardest to kick and let me tell you that i've got a few too many of those and the worst ones are up in my head so you can't see them but i know they're there. it's true. this can be the fine line of life the one you step over to get somewhere else away from all your sentimentalities because honestly and you already know this that those are for the birds let's just drive let's just get out of here i'm gonna drink this whiskey until i have an out of body experience and then i'm gonna come back like a perverted resurrection because sometimes you really have to hit the ground before you can get back up.

{bad dreams.}

pouring out the skylight on the third floor of the house, was a large house plant. i had placed it there assuming it might manifest sort of organic aesthetic value, it's leaves and giant orange blossoms pushing their way out of the house, as though the house were filled with such exotic vegetation. i took the two girls outside, so they might judge my attempt at exterior decorating. they told me it looked really stupid.

the house belonged to my aunt, and for as far back as i can gather memories, that house has terrified me. at any age, if i found myself alone in any room, my chest would swell with terror. this happened most predominantly in the studio, which was positioned above the garage. in order to get to the studio, you had to use the raised walkway, which passed above, and separated, the living and dining rooms. it's difficult to explain. the house was put together in the strangest of ways. but the studio was mostly isolated from the rest of the living quarters. it's also hard to explain why the house was so petrifying. i wasn't used to being in the woods, which may have been part of it. in the day time it was an amazingly beautiful space, so full of character and light. the sun shone through the trees, into the large windows, creating a warm sense of comfort. but at night, as it tends to be the case, the entire mood of the house changed. even thinking of it now, i am brought to cold sweats imagining the times i watched the house while aunt and cousins were out of town. the structure was filled with peculiar angles and rooms, giving one no real sense of escape, if the cause were to arise. there was no real way to be aware of your surroundings. anything could enter the room from a dozen different places. it was a large, open house, but very complicated. the nights in that house were filled with quickly shifting eyes and perked ears.


it was day, so the house didn't seem so intense. the girls told me it was a dumb idea to put the plant half way out the window on the third floor, which happened to be the loft, my oldest cousin's room. i told them i would show them were the plant was in the house, as though it would somehow sway their opinion. "it's on the third floor," i said, "i mean the fourth. no- the third." we began to walk up the steps, into the loft.


we are outside again. the day has instantly shifted to night, and the house, not looking like its normal self, has taken on a foreboding state. from the lawn, we look to the third floor.

in the loft we find my brother at a giant security system. the monitors display all the different rooms of the house. he tells us we have to go. we can't stay here. he's been living here for years. ever room in the loft is filled with boxes of untouched, but spoiled food. i feel no sense of safety outside this room. there are horrid things looming on the property. my brother goes on to tell us about how he's been living here monitoring the zombies. but they've multiplied, and are completely out of hand. we have to make out way out of the house. the zombies on the screens are reminiscent of apes. they are slow and aloof.

we find ourselves in an underground room. despite the fact that we are underground, we are also outside. it is a gigantic room, made to look like farm land, and it is littered with zombies. they are kept from us by a giant gate. the gate beings to open. i look at my brother and we agree that it would be absolutely unfortunate to be caught in the midst of this "room".



the dog barks now and i am dreaming lucidly. i fall back.



i am in the house alone. as in, by myself, but the presence of the house is becoming clearer, more centalized. i live in the house now. me and an evil spirit. this specter is overwhelming. i feel him constantly. he is a weight on my life, it's difficult to breath. i know he's with me all the time. eventually i begin to speak to him, with a steady confidence. he can't hurt me, although he would like to. i have fear, but a great strength to contend with him, to question and break him. when i turn corners, his shadow is there. he carries knives across the kitchen. he watches me while i sleep. i say to him, "you have just as much choice to be evil as you do to be good. why don't you show yourself to me. i want to see you." i am filled with great compassion.

he says his name is Skeet. we are in the dining room. in the corner by the window, where once when i was very young, i drank wine alone. we argue, and i rebuke his presence. his face is made of fire. and we are screaming. there is compassion and great anger. the point of his existence escapes me. i am stronger. his face is made of fire, lacking features. and his body is white and shapeless. i am frightened but unwavering. i am tossing in my sleep. megan, megan, are you awake? it takes me a few seconds to feel my body. to connect with myself. yes, i am awake.

{bye.}

{it's time i came back from outer space.
and face the mirror i still have to face.}

{ridiculous.}

{chips.}

presently, i'm very out of sorts. frustrated by my laziness. maybe it's just this place. but i think it's about time i stopped blaming the places, and started realizing that i'm the one who sucks. so i got all pissed with myself for lacking the ability to manage my money. or at least save it. i needed a new toothbrush and some double-sided tape. but the more time i spent outside my house, the more pissed i became. so i bought some chips and salsa, to eat while being pissed. so that's what i'm doing. it's delicious. why not have a drink you might ask. well, i did make a drink a while ago. note to self: don't used random knives lying on the counter to cut lemons for your gin and tonic. sometimes people have recently used them to cut onions. onions + gin/tonic/lemons = not so good. maybe it was an omen, because i definitely prepared the drink around 11 am. anyway. it's my day off, and there's much to be done. i'm gonna go be too chubby for summer in my room. and wonder how any hospital would let a 13 year-old boy perform any kind of surgery. fuck you doogie howser. you don't make any sense.

{gyno-gyno.}

she told me i should see a neurologist. what the fuck is that supposed to mean. was it intended as some snide remark? or did she not know what she was talking about. maybe she meant psychologist. why didn't i ask why then? i guess i was confused. because when you go somewhere to have someone look at your vagina, and they say, "you should see a neurologist," it just doesn't make sense. honestly. now i'm wondering if i should see a neurologist. thanks lady. my vagina may be fine, especially fine if you don't call me back with abnormal pap test results. but now i'm wondering about my nervous system. back to square one.

{what is sad.}

questioning quietly in times
where burdens have been buried
dug up in the dark, laid to rest again.
in truth,
i am the last.

what can be said.
i am the lost,
confronting myself in mirrors
dismissing or accepting truth and fortitude.
the day breaks and i am the same

as i ever was

words write themselves these days.
wine drinks itself
these days there is nothing
but the act of waiting
and saying life is too short

if this were my last moment
would i be satisfied in it,

i think not.

love lingers in the hearts of men
and where i stand is not stable
the bed i sleep in
is not my own

the ground i walk on
was not meant for me

my breasts silently swell
and i anticipate
the quietness.

{finding the gin. on boys and cancer.}

i would have stayed up later, but i ran out of smoke. and would have written better, had i not been so tempted as to see who else had simpler things to say. this place is a riot. this town is a joke. like most. i'm lying. we stayed up late. read Calvin and Hobbes, felt much better about everything. is it so bad to be a dreamer. i'm honing my contemplations. if i thought about my dreams as much as i think about boys and cancer, i'd probably be a happy woman. the key is to keep writing. everyone always says there isn't anything to talk about. to update. but therein lies the fatal flaw, you just keep writing. even when there's nothing to say. even when you're dying of cancer. even when the boys have hurt you, but you keep on loving. i'd give you my last meal. i'd give you my blankets in the cold. there are certain people who do this to us. and those who don't. yet again, it's late at night, and i am running out of cigarettes. my new pact with myself is to think about writing, instead of boys and cancer. there is a dream in this world that keeps me going. i couldn't tell you what it is. it's not the one i go to sleep to. it's the fantasy of living. it's the sudden suppositions. the endless whimsical places. the problem being, we get older, and so easily forget about the places that we so unknowingly left behind. in a fit of independence. a hasty self-sufficiency. the parts of us we gave to love. or when we spent all our money on solidarity. existence can be such a joker. we've lost. we lose ourselves in the vastness of reality. the supposition of tranquility. and love. watched the movies as children. and felt the way we wanted. don't fool yourself. justification is a joke. who are you kidding.

{reading this won't be worth your time.}

due to this subtle state of desperation. it seems i'll be writing my way through the night. or just sitting staring into space. drinking wine and smoking cigarettes through supposed sickness. in the darkness of the dining room. or on the porch. where i live right now. for a month. i am a space cadet. i would like to keep from sleeping. i need a solid plan. i need an idea.

{stereo song.}

this is the edge and walking
over coals
used to be all there was to do
in the marshlands
in that valley.
you would think it hurts
but it's just a matter
of fine lines
and how hard you scream.
a fake pain face.

and in that valley
the warnings sing
with all its alarms
one might think the twisters
would come and eat you up
but they never do

this is the song that will be playing
while i'm waiting
always doing the right things
at the wrong time.
when i think it won't affect me

how much wine does it take
to keep a soul from sadness
what constitutes adulthood
or the opposite

everywhere ended displays
the unanticipated outcome
nothing is ever
what i had dreamed it would be
on innumerable nights
where i lie in bed
and made up stories
before sleep
just the little something
to keep me from truth

{two things..}

and..



viewing them now, i recognize that the animators of the last unicorn also animated the other movie i watched all the time, which was this:



once my brothers and i put on a play of the hobbit for my parents. it was pretty awesome. i can even express how amazing these movies are to me, even now. i should watch them soon. everyone's invited.

additionally. how could i for get this:



and in that version, the actual, true interpretation of the story by hans christian anderson, she kills herself in the end. she turns to sea foam. because that's how the story goes. way to ruin everything you touch Disney..

so for good measure:



i used to watch these movies non-stop. and by that i mean, at least once a day for years. i think in some ways they have shaped who i am today.

{idea..}

fall in the best of ways
instant humility can be the greatest remedy
for all acquired cynicisms
there's nothing quite like hitting the ground
to wake you right up

be friends
for now and later
make me eggs
and we can climb mountains
recollect over and under
all the tall tales of love
and laughter will resonate
through bodies
breathing side by side
asleep or not
in the night
when it turns out
all we needed was perspective.

{still smoking.}

it's been said that all anyone ever has to talk about is themselves, because that's all anyone ever really knows. i am going to die. i said it aloud in my car at a stop light on the way to the grocery store. it seemed i needed to verbalize, so that i would come to terms with its factualness. i have been freakishly gripped by the all too common fear of dying. this plague consumed me very suddenly about a year ago. i was sitting in my car reading in the dark, and rubbing my left hand across my neck. as my fingers grazed the lateral tendons holding my head on place, i came across an ill-placed lump. panic swelled. i grew cold, chest burned and my throat closed up. there's nothing quite like discovering body malformations, while being a thousand miles from home and living in a car. thinking about it now, the ironic part of that story revolves around what i happened to be reading, No Exit, by sarte. but since that specific moment, i have been in a constant state of terror over the act of dying. i say "act of dying" because i'm not afraid of no longer existing, rather the timely progression towards death. the wilting of my body, eventual weakness, and the inevitable pity that i'm sure most people who know they are dying receive from the healthy, who are really thinking how glad they are that it isn't happening to them.

i've spent innumerable late nights finding and questioning many kinds of supposed abnormalities all over my body. in order to figure out what the problem might be, i would go online and look images depicting some similarity to my flaw. which turned out to be an absolutely terrible and accordingly, horrifying idea. there are so many pictures of mouth cancer on the internet. and i'm sure they only use the most grotesque cases to characterize cancer.

i believe the scientific term for these actions i exhibit is "hypochondria", however, using such a terminology makes me feel right cheap about the whole affliction. as though, my entire person can be simply written off in some respect. it's like calling someone an alcoholic. one can use the term, but have no real idea what it's like to be an alcoholic, like any other psychoneurosis. they just assume it means you drink too much. just like being a hypochondriac means you are afraid of illness too much. i'm sure no one really wants to know what it's like to be either, but it still strikes me as an easy oversimplification for such a considerably displeasureable state of mind.

it isn't that i'm necessarily afraid of dying alone either. this can be handled. and anyway, i'd be the one dying, so i would assume that the only individuals who might feel alone are the one's "left behind" following my death. i once told my father that if i died i hoped he wouldn't be too upset over the whole ordeal, because i would be dead, and being alive is pretty fucking hard anyway, so really, it would all be for the better. which isn't to say i don't enjoy the act of living. a good beer, fat and friendly chickadees on the sidewalk eyeing me for food, a quality climbing tree, hot days and cool grass, sticking my feet into the water while lying in the sweltering sun, all of these things please me to an infinite extent. daily i profess my gratitude for something worthy i witness. but lately the days seem long with work, and time doesn't seem to ever be mine. i wonder where the hours go. why i don't have the opportunities to bask in the natural richness of the day. co-workers invite me to the bar, where we go on and on about some caddishness that i don't care about and is in no way profitable to the life i would like to lead. then there are the obligations to the ones who have come to care for me greatly. more and more i feel completely detached from everything going on around me, and consequently can't seem to simply find myself in the mess of life i live in. what am i doing wrong. all i want is water. and the earth to speak to me in a place where pettiness is absent. where my car won't get towed. and i don't decide to drink myself to some state of artificial solidarity.

i guess the point of all of this is to tell myself that i am going to die, in order to realize that i am alive. and in all the instants where i find myself dissatisfied, there is actually an achievable graceful exit from that into something else. which, when chosen wisely, will decidedly bring me closer to where i should be. i'm not under the assumption that there is any sort of solid fulfillment, however, i would like to try and work my way towards that abstraction. and through such a venture, i might not feel so bad about dying. death will simply be what it is, for everyone who ever lived once.

{give me something better three beers later.}

a little less elastic

{first}

the binding has broken again.
what's left to say
after we've started talking.
telling all the thoughts we knew
we wouldn't say.
let's wrap this one up
place it in the back
it's tired and time for bed.
if i don't sleep now
all thoughts will escape
swarm and consume me.
like a bunch of bats.
there is no second wind. third or fourth.
and sick from speaking
the nights are slippery slopes
the days are dastardly. as mentioned
eyes heavy against the absence of light
hands tired from all the touching
chapped by winter.
who says i can't keep myself from dreaming
supposing i might just as well fall in.
don't depict charms
or manifest your mannerisms.
please.
i have to be somewhere
and it's getting late.
go have whatever's yours
i'll be here humming to myself.


{second}

baby takes a deep breath and delivers
times are too convenient
kids keep fighting pulling hair
the bar is our new playground
and lonely

there was the only love ever liked
flaws and all
eventually we're all fools
the dumbfounded

friends stop calling
absorbed into little sacred lives
get used to the lonely lover
work in a dog pile of pettiness
most days it's hard to stay in touch
with any sort of self

i'd like to make great promises
but when it boils down the the sticky tar of feeling
it's just wanting you here
it seems we've lived many lives together
that's how i feel
but let's be serious for some seconds
i'm distracted again.


{third}

a fine time
to sober up and wait
lust and longing linger somewhere
suppressed and unadulterated
these new things. to have.
count the costs and say what i'm thinking.
of closeness and the surreality therein
the newness, i mean.
found fondness stumbled upon
while drunk and driving home.
ran you over on accident
three times. and you kept calling out
faking nonchalantness acting up to par
poorly made.
but after you dance naked at night
and stepped back
trying to make sense of the simple things
being beautiful to me
wondering where actuality lies
body next to mine maybe
where are the lines of living
i am captivated.
i am calling quietly through smoke.
passive and greatly pleased together.


{the fourth makes me a liar.}

i didn't mean any of that.
the house collapsed upon me.

{what would mr. rogers do?}

okay. it's going to work this time. there are two gnats buzzing around my hands. i just caught the scent of what a friend of mine smelled like on any given day. i'm tired and optimistic. the glare of the computer screen on my hands makes them look enormous. like cinder blocks. why can't i be good. like mr. rogers. loving and saintly. just doing what it is i do, and avoiding all distractions and sadness. let's make this work and try harder. i feel ill. let's fix this. i'd like to be more sound, and remain so.

{why people blow:}

VS.






yeah, nice job jerk-face. maybe you should get your own ideas instead of ripping other people off. and i think you owe mr. gondry some sort of an apology.

{liquidation sale.}

everything must go.
it will be better
in this drink sleep drink world
man eat man
where love only lies within me half asleep
and no one's really listening.
the clockstopped
i could sink into the sea okay
strip strip strip
everything must go.

{drunken psalm.}

the days are lined immaculate
we speak of the dead
and the traditions there in
having wounded all the love there is
made a bed of straw
made a house of sticks

there were ones for which to bask
to lie in front of vast oceans
bleeding we never knew existed
not at all afraid
no lies were ever spoken
no breath ever distilled

to say so calmly things
that don't matter
i know the ways of your workings
like little clocks
your clever machinery
but we are all a memory eventually
and then forgotten.
don't kid yourself anyway
keep singing
and i'll keep drinking
to the tune
and dreaming.

{too many naps.}

the way we smoke
to excess, and fester
falling short of deliverance faster than ever.


there's nobody here but us ghosts.

go home.
managing monsters,
tagging them like endangered animals
standing at the front door disguised
as small children
selling candy.

{never feel that way again.}

sticky seas of sickly drunks
and the ears are getting hotter
from an illness
with the fevers
that will eat the world alive
dropping dollars like loose letters
when the words won't stay together
when a slimy swollen tongue gets too thick for speaking

and anonymity only still exists
because no one knows the sober
and we are rarely sober.
sometimes somber,
which instances make strangers smell the melancholy odors
so they avoid you like the plague.
similarly to the sun,
everyone eventually gets sick of the rain.

at night, tasting too much,
saying the sentences of shouldn't
these buildings are fake friends
they only want your money
and i liked you better
when i didn't know you
and isn't that always the case

so save the vodka soaked olives for last
because that's all the love you're getting
sodium and sugars
be careful
there's a body burning
for some satisfaction of living
as the lights begin to dim

{sleeping dogs lie.}

crawl into the dark
deep woods far from the pack these
dogs will die alone.

{the ways of was.}

everything will be okay. a stranger to myself. afraid all the time. heaping the coals on top of me every time i fuck up. every time i am afraid. let this day deal with its own worries. i am trying so hard. constantly consuming. i need to sleep now. let me be okay. no. i can't deal.

the terrified and lonely
ones-
like last autumn's rotten
leaves
that cling to now naked
trees
and the ways of
was.

{the blood sucking thought patterns.}

it doesn't matter how i sing it. only i can hear my fearfulness. only i can hear my peace. and i suppose i could maybe say it is such a specific enough way, that the muffled melody i'm playing might be picked up. vaguely. very faintly. but it's all within me. and it drives me to drinking. and it makes me to sleeping for hours. every emotion creeps up on padded feet. sometimes softly touching me. mostly stabbing in the back. but i rarely turn to confront it. i might face it, but its eyes are more intimidating than mine. and its teeth are always gnashing. it is a vampiric. and makes my skin feel restless. i'm sure it wouldn't be so bad. if i could rebuke it. but when one is in a fearful state, it's hard enough to breath. to do anything to save yourself. and this is ridiculous. and where do these thoughts come from. they are spoken to me, from behind me left ear, i have to you a few times before. they come to me again and again. i am not strong enough. they reinvent themselves. they are silvery shape shifters, and they know how to pull me under. and they know that they are good at it. i am stupid human. i am susceptible to the secret lies that pour into me. i'm begging you for help. i am debilitated. catatonic. immobilized. all there is is sleeping and intoxication. my eyes are heavy. i am not meant for this world. desperately i try to avoid it, and am even bad at that. i've fallen right into lukewarm water. i create my own death daily. i am bruised and beaten down by my own thoughts and actions. how can one live freely when it seems that what they are is what is killing them. i am being melodramatic, but serious. i cannot live like this. i am tired. and hungry. and in need of refuge.

{startling starling.}

{mzunga.}

we sat in a large but mostly empty apartment on the west side. the fourth story. there were seven of us. and half were visitors from out of town. i smoked out the window, while biz markie played for the room of white folks behind me. to the right of me. apart from the music it was mostly quiet. soft spoken, slurred speech. everyone seemed considerably more intoxicated than myself. glassy-eyed and lackadaisical. but i was a bit tottied up myself. i probably should not have driven. but i did so there's no excuses now. just luck. i wore a black dress with little polka dots. once again not in the mood for much of anything except my own thoughts. or maybe dealing with this social interaction in a different way than the rest. maybe just tired. still wearing my apron and work shirt.

in my left ear are disintegration loops. in the right is a voice that i had saved about a week ago in order to listen to later. because i thought it might be nice to hear again. if i felt so inclined. which i do. this make me feel silly, and kind of stupid. i worry. i worry about these thoughts that i have. and those distractions. i've been told it's alright to be distracted, to focus attention of other things. otherwise, what would life be, without these distractions. we would probably just think we were dying all the time. (as my tongue shifts in my mouth, presenting me with some strange obtrusion, which is probably just my jaw bone, but of course i have to look at it in the mirror and see if i can determine whether or not it has tumoristic [not a word] properties. as though i would know.) but i worry. it's what i do. and i would like to quit. be careful. full of care.

i am sitting in the coffee shop, which i enjoy. they give me apples, oranges, cookies, and dried mango bits for free every time i leave. i don't talk with anyone. they must just like me for some reason. or they are simply kind. i come here almost everyday. the man behind the counter must be cooking onions, because my eyes are beginning to burn a little. the windows are fogged. i look forward to sitting here in summer time. when the windows are open and the air is more substantial. thick and humid. in a sundress, i will be glazed in pleasant sweat. and enjoy the cool, nightly showers before bed. falling asleep with the windows open. waking to the ruckus of the bright day. riding my bike.

sometimes people have loud personal conversations in quiet public places. i always wonder why they do that. lately i've been especially quiet during day and night. i don't much feel like talking. i don't have much to say. it's hard for me to tell whether or not this is a wise venture. i tend to become so consumed by my own thoughts. i get very unnerved. for as long as i can remember my mother has said to me, "you think too much." before, i had thought that this was a good thing. that it made me more an intellectual. more a thinker and therefor more inclined to make great things and be interesting. i don't think like that anymore. and anyway, i am far more a feeler than a thinker anyway. and for as long as i can remember my dad would say to me, "get a hold of your emotions. don't let them drag you all around." and i would think to myself that being emotional was good because it made me aware of myself and where i stood in certain situations. it helped make life more definitive, in a sense. i was a more passionate person if i became very emotional about things. i don't think like that anymore. i'm all caught up. i've snagged so many parts of myself on everything, to the point were i am pretty tattered. there's no elastic in me. i am one hundred percent cotton. but i was given a sewing machine for christmas. and have been doing quite a bit of mending. sometimes the pockets still fall out, from me shoving my fists into them, when it gets too cold out here in ohio.

i sat outside again. in the soft grey, muted light and evening air, smoking a cigarette. listening to william basinski. a young, asian man walks down the sidewalk toward me. he is wearing a grey t-shirt, and walks briskly. his coat is draped across his left arm, and the right arm waves gracefully to-and-fro as he approaches, as though he is playing the violin. his fingers pinched, gripping an imaginary bow. his head tilted slightly back. maybe he is practicing, i think. but his dancing arm glides perfectly in tune with what i hear in my headphones. the woman across the street, parallel to him, stares at his aloof gestures. i stare at him. and as he passes, i smile at him kindly, in a state of gratitude. he doesn't see me. he shouldn't see me.

{disintigration loops.}

indulgence brigs a fog. the days are better. and thoughts are more cohesive. like old friendships. i want to be a righteous woman. a good person. how many times have i sat in certain places having thoughts. nice ideas, whimsical notions, pleasant daydreams, or simply subtly muffled emotions that make my eyes glass over. and my heart heated with some kind of greater sense of self. not even solitary self, more like i'm seeping out and taking in the different shades of divinity. whatever that means to you. infectious days and personal compulsions. we have set ourselves aside. in recognition that everyone experiences pretty much the same things. but how you deal with it defines you.

{the world just screams and falls apart.}

i had a dream you were still alive.
playing Mozart records in the basement
and you whistle like you always did
when it hit your favourite part.

i had a dream you were still alive.
like i could feel your stubble on
my face when you kiss me
and we do our special signals together.

i had a dream you were still alive.
wearing your brown plaid shirts.
wearing your brown plaid shirts.
wearing your brown plaid shirts.

cloud destruction experiments.
orgone energy. yeah.
Ether, God and Devil.
Charles R. Kelley.

+

at any rate. that image as a whole is visually gratifying to me. i don't know about all this "orgone energy" or "life force", but it's all pretty interesting to read about if you have nothing better to do than waste time and not drink.

what to do.. treat my days well. and use them wisely. i have a hard time being productive at my house. and writing about it now, as in, the simple act of writing about my inactivity or inabilities, makes me feel right lame. i'm not a fan of excuses, and i feel like i'm making them. justification is a joke. a joke. but seriously. i don't like being at home. except for when it's time to sleep. someday i will live alone. it will be best that way. but what do i do now? every time i have asked someone where i should go to college, they always say "how about Puppy University?" or "Dog College." who are these people? and why is it that every time i ask that question there is an canine around, stealing attention, to such an extent, that people make up fake colleges somehow affiliated with puppies/dogs. am i hungry or sick. i can't tell anymore. i feel discomfort. let's lay down my needs:

megan elizabeth henry needs:

- save money.
- to live alone.
- to finish college.
- to decide.

i don't even know what i want to do. film? or writing? or both... yeah. cigarette. d dddd. hello. my name is megan. i am the embodiment of distraction. where am i going. what am i doing. in case you haven't noticed. i very rarely am one for question marks. i love boards of canada. orange. ok. there's a lot to see. and i'm still young enough to contain within myself the sense that i can do anything. and i would like to retain that mentality. bitterness is for bastards. and cynicism for suckers. feed me with a fork and fold me forty times over. the brick roads are begging. and my car is dying. christ is calling on his royal telephone. burl ives. bogdan raczynski. bangladesh. (there goes anton on his bicycle.. i just saw him in a red hat. there he go. "there it go".) what it all boils down to is where i am going. denver it seems. fake cancer. i just have to maintain my focus. i tend to not do that.. and what the hell kind of a name is "burl"?

{just another shitty day in paradise.}

whatever happened to my coffee mug. i stole this picture from lisa. but it was so nice to see a picture of the Grill. the g-rill. i was brought back to so many instances. like closing on sundays, and hiding my bottle of gin in booth one. or playing biscuit baseball. or larry being a drunken asshole who made me cry. i miss it. i think it was probably my favourite job. larry aside. when leo was there, and traviss, who i rarely got to see, but was always happy to see, because i never saw him ever, and lisa, who at this point i don't even recall whether she was working there when i worked there, or was, or just hung out all the time, and cooked. and helped me wrap tatter boys. mmm. i'm getting intestinal cramps just thinking about home fries. with green peppers. and onions. and spiciness. and dan-o. and e-bar. that was short lived. peter. lauren?! i almost forgot. that bitch. her grama made her cool waitress dresses. and she didn't even ask me. i suppose we weren't talking a lot at the time. that's definitely the place that got me to drankin. i only had one beer tonight.


i just drank milk. because i'm stupid. also. i can't sleep. because i ate a lot of chocolate covered espresso beans. because i'm still stupid.

{is it an android you are? or are you a quasar?}

preface: these words are nothing of consequence. or are they....


i have a serious bone to pick when individuals make beautiful things and are themselves beautiful. in the face. that is. mileece, is an example of this phenomena. i just got a lot of titillating music. my mouth waters. also, i think i may need to be medicated. what's the cure for hypochondria? were i ever to make an album, i might call it "mouth sore", but probably not. maybe i'd call it "fake cancer". hah. that's funny to me. does anyone remember "fake carl the cat"? probably not. i had forgotten until about fifteen minutes ago that green tea is awesome. Automaton.

"once upon a midnight, in the planet land of X, a young boy being lay dreaming."

i've taken my things, and come to the algebra tea house. there is something very specifically different about writing outside your own home. and despite the fact that i have nothing dire to say, this feels very pleasant, and i needed to do it.

"an electric blue glow seemed to fill his heart like star light. not moving. not wanting to destroy the moment."

when i was in mississippi, i did this every day for months. i feel like i used to have something to say. presently, i feel very cluttered. like a junk drawer. i'm sure there's some really useful or at least interesting things inside me, but i can't find them. they're hidden under lots of confusion and fear probably. i never saw myself as a fearful person before, but i do now. that's kind of sad. we will have to do something about that, shan't we. cigarette. the amazing sound of orgy. i love it when that bass hits.

"nothing made any sense. what did it mean? it's important. it has a meaning!"

tiredness creeps on masculine feet. and grabs a hold with heavy hands. of course i might think to myself that lethargy and death might be the same thing. of course. there will always be a day of reckoning. eventually if not today. it seems that on another hand i sleep in order to avoid thought, and therein ignore death and reckoning. my penance. my self-imposed earthly purgatory. the days are days are days. and it is always what it is, nothing more, only speculation. i am fine. and if not, will be.

"for that was the young boys name. end."

it's time for a thunderstorm, children.

{approaching anniversaries.}

mostly when i have to go i do. but not now yet. it kills me slightly. and draws me to my limits. listlessly listening. i have reached a fickle Fahrenheit. the desire to collect the ways in which i gauge my own illnesses is obsolete it seems. as i gather my worldly treasures in my lap, my heart. and wait to die alone with them. there is always the voice i come crawling back to. with all the best pitiful pleas. that's just like me. i can tell you that i don't wish to sleep tonight or ever. but inevitably, i will.

{fear is in the chest.}

i've been really good. especially good. for the past few months i haven't even thought about disease or cancer. i may have made a comment or two about terminal illnesses. but i know that within myself i haven't been afraid. rather, i haven't obsessed about infirmities to the point where i become nauseated, dizzy and consumed by fear.

last night at five in the morning i was brought back. i have two lesions on the hard palate of my mouth. it began on saturday as one lump, which gradually became two parallel lumps. they grew slightly, felt hot, and now are two small, warm, open wounds. nothing too painful. i'm assuming they're fever blisters or canker sores. but why leave it at that. so last night i decided to read numerous medical documents, definitions, and articles, as well as look at all sorts of unearthly, horrific, bloodcurdling cancer images. of all the great ideas. i seriously convinced myself that i have oral cancer. and had to call my mom at five am and have her talk me down. i woke up and felt much better, fine even. but why let the issue rest. about an hour ago i looked up more pictures, and read about more symptoms of mouth cancer, and have convinced myself yet again that i am going to die a slow and painful, cancerous death at the young age of twenty-two. because, you know, it can happen. there are so many things you can die from. i called my mom again, she talked me down again, and i ask her "how to you know that i don't have cancer? how does any doctor know if all he or she does is knead my breasts or poke my lymph nodes?" at any rate. the moral of the story is that i am ridiculous and exhausted now from all this fear. and i really wanted to have a vodka/o.j. and a smoke, but one article specifically pointed out the fact that smoking and drinking simultaneously makes it incredibly more likely for someone to get cancer. thanks science. thanks for taking the things that make me happy and peaceful and turning them into demons. thanks for ruining my fun.. and my life.

{the clubbed left foot.}

i was born with a clubbed left foot. which is funny because i don't remember having one at all. but i have seen pictures of an infant megan with a cast on her leg. i went on a walk today for the first time in weeks. when i walk, i lead with my right foot. i've been paying a great deal of attention to this lately. when attempting to lead with my left foot, i tend to limp, or hobble, which probably isn't as noticeable as it seems to me. when i try to lead with both feet, i strut. but strutting exhausts me. so eventually i just fall back into my usual steps. but it was a wonderful walk. i've felt so lethargic lately, very anxious and manic. but two days ago it was almost as if i consumed some sort of toxic elixir. i feel myself mutating, becoming more energetic, and less hoe-hum. the music i listened to on said walk made me happy. for the first time in a long while i felt the need to dance while walking. i didn't, and never do, but the thought of it always amuses me. so the walk was peaceful and pleasant, and stomping through the half-icy snow with my boots felt like how i'd imagine it feels like to eat cap'n crunch with plastic teeth. (i thought that at the time.. although i don't much care for the cap'n.) needless to say, i enjoyed myself. after a while however, on account of my left foot, my left knee and hip began to hurt. and gradually my left foot turned inwards to alleviate this discomfort, which it always does. in addition to that pain, my left shoulder is killing me. right now i am drinking cheap red wine. and really wish i had some green olives to eat. the ones with pits.

{i should have prefaced this writing with a warning. everything i'm going to say tonight contains no actual reading value. i'm just talking, because i need to right now. i really with i had some olives..}

guess who just found olives.. that's right. it's me. they are the called "green pearls" and are the pitted, pre-sliced ones. but it's good enough for now. mm, luxurious. while walking tonight, i almost stepped in a large pile of dog poop. in my head i comprised an open letter to the person who let their dog shit on the sidewalk. it went something like this:

An open letter to the person who let their dog take a crap on the sidewalk and just left it there:

Seriously guy. What the fuck. Asshole.

that's about it. i mean, what else is there to say really. i feel very pleasant right now. maybe five hours ago my brain was a paradoxical mess. i sometimes think two completely contrary things simultaneously, and believe in both. it pains me. and on that note, i'd like to add that i am making a pact with myself to live alone from here on out. i think that is the only way to do it. i can't function when there's someone else in the house. and i dread coming home, because my privacy is depleted by at least 53 points. i don't know what that means. additionally, i really like vinegar lately, but it makes me lips feel swollen. tomorrow i am going to swim laps for the first time in maybe four years. which is very exciting. i like the smell of chlorine pools. i keep having dreams with specific songs in them. on saturday i had a dream with the song vogue by madonna. probably because it played on the radio at work, and sonny was singing along to it, which was very funny to me at the time. but either last night or today, i had a dream with the, oh yeah, it was today, with the song moondance by van morrison in it. and later, whilst walking, i put my music on shuffle, and it played at least four van morrison tracks. maybe my dream was prophetic. pointlessly prophetic. but in the dream this afternoon, i remember singing the words to moondance while leo deboe sat in the bottom of a kitchen sink, and rob keys' omnipresent voice suggested things that i don't remember. and my chest was on fire because of these little confetti crabs that you put into water so that they dance for you. they danced like a spirograph. it was completely awesome. i thought that maybe i'd gotten these little guys, reminiscent of sea monkeys, on my skin, which was why my chest was burning. also, you can't put a mermaid in the water with these crab things because the crabs will swarm and kill it. that's the information leo read from the packaging the crabs came in. and i said, "leo, are they alive?" and he said, "well, for now they are." and then looked at the neon drawing of a mermaid on the package and said, "you can't go in there." and i swear to god, in the dream it was his exact intonation. there were also wicker chairs around a wicker table in this room. (which was an underground apartment, don't ask me how i know that, i just do.) but all the furniture was lined with white wire hangers. which i imagined was the keep the from getting all banged up. i also recall an instance in the dream where leo, rob and i, needed to call opie, because no one knew where we lived. maybe because it was underground. and all the while, moondance was playing. so that's the dream i had while sleeping on the floor in front of my space heater in my bedroom. wow- my right leg just fell asleep and i really thought i was about to lose it.

and by the way, these olives suck. i'm gonna have a cigarette.

{a song.}

oh i'm just a little black rain cloud
hovering under the honey tree
oh i'm just a little black rain cloud
pay no attention to little me
oh everyone know that a rain cloud
never eats honey no not a nip
i'm just floating around
over the ground
wondering where i will drip

{the wolves won't make us better.}

she warms up and laughs hollow alone in a room on the east side of a town growing fonder. shadow-boxing herself into a corner. where the computer is. where the wine is. where the words are. there's no smoking this one out. not ever. she's making secret plans and counting money. taking things too seriously and always considering who the fool might be. if only they knew how much i didn't want to love them. she thinks in silence. they will eat you alive and not even know it. you'll throw yourself into their breakfasts. and they will blindly swallow without glancing. this is the new dimension of self. where ideas aren't solidified. every coin is double-headed. there are no erasers. and all the pages have to be filled before the sun is allowed to come up. but it's never under control. she thinks of secrets that can't be kept. and now says .:memories remember me:. wishing that she didn't and knowing full well of the desires. if only i were better. for now my house is mine. and i must keep quiet. i'm sorry for that. but it will make me better. if only i'd recognized fear when it came to my door with all that alcohol in hand. i would have called that man a liar. not that he was a man. i don't remember.

{le côte devoire.}

there's ink on the sheets.
and my jaw is shifting to the right.
so i know i've had too much.


dear eli,
i'm in the middle of the ocean.
i haven't left my room in four days.
i've never been so lonely in my life.
and i think i'm in love with margot.

new paragraph..