Fuck, forgot to zip my face up
Honestly: I didn’t want to want you anymore. I loathed the way you let your lungs make love with cigarette smoke and I despised the way you stapled your past to the backs of your shoes, wearing it not so much like a disposable cloak, but more like a permanent shadow. Always conveying a semblance of new-found autonomy and escape, but always consciously carrying your vices in your back pocket.
But my god when you pull back the curtain of your Tyler Durden pseudo-self I see brilliance dripping from your fingertips onto blank canvases which weep from humble excitement and joy, knowing that your precious hands have chosen them to carry a thought that’s proliferated from your mind. I swear, in those brief moments when you lose touch with your self-inflicted melancholy, when you smile with more than just your mouth, every photon in the room electrifies with such electrostatic magnificence that objects begin to breathe life in their moments of illumination.
And when you take the time to recycle the clichéd rubbish that sometimes flows from your mouth like a river, your voice box vibrates with such raw, organic, and eloquent substance that I begin to wonder whether your ivory body is sometimes harboring an innate alien fugitive with a deadly case of logorrhea.
So how could I qualm all of my existing desires for you when we could point and laugh at those lovers who claim that their bodies are like magnets, constantly gravitating towards each other? For our own bodies are like magnetic Velcro strips—every individual particle of our being filling the negative plaster of the other corpus with breathless ease. And I’m sure that if we sunk to the bottom of the ocean floor together, gasping and clinging to the naked body of the other, the tides would neglect the pull and lull of the moon, favoring instead the gravity of our syncopated heartbeats.
I want you to know that I would lay you down in a meadow and have my way with you and I would likewise push you down on a cold city pavement and make your body quake with pleasure.
And in the future I want you to ignore the sound of my loud silences, which, despite their fear-inducing ability, only exist because a gift for written words is almost always counterbalanced with an emotionally triggered tied-tongue.
I’m sure you’ve heard that scientifically speaking, the entire course of human evolution has resulted in the construction of a being who thirsts for love on a molecular level; love is a tool designed for the purpose of rearing healthy children, and it comes in the form of dopamine. But, personally, I think that being in love is more than experiencing a neurochemical surge. Consciously, it’s like experiencing a loud silence, because it is only after an obvious lack of sound that an avalanche strikes. Until science can adequately capture the fabric of the cosmos, I refuse to believe that it can wholly describe the fabric of our inner cosmos or the fabric of my feelings for you.
There’s no question that the first sight of you makes my fingertips tremble with anticipation and the corners of my reddening lips jump to the field of my blushing cheeks. Nor is there a question that the absence of you makes my mind ache with wanting and desire so profound that my neurons erupt in nighttime storms of electrical activity.
And, under the right conditions, my fondness for you blooms in my mind’s eye like a field of vibrant sunflowers, all turning their sun-kissed heads to the burning image of you and your ocean blue eyes and freckled shoulders and crooked teeth.
But I am not yet yours entirely, nor can I be, for you are a dream not yet fully realized, rather, one that is on the cusp of entering mental awareness.
Fuck you and your indolence. Fuck you and the poison you let well up inside you with your superiority complexes. Your mother didn’t feed a stone-imitation of you to your father, so don’t fucking walk around and pretend like you can shoot lightning bolts through your vain, mortal fingers. You fucking cunt. I give you everything and pamper you with compassion and it’s not good enough for you. I dropped my other lovers for you and I’m not good enough for you. The eyes of men would pay to feast on the reflections of light that evaporate off my naked body, but I’m not sexy enough for you either. There’s always better. You’re always looking. Thoughts of me never intrude your mind, you have to push me out of the way to make room for all of your sexual fantasies. You yearn for sex, with new lovers, because you’re an empty vessel. Just the desperate, defective imitation of an imperfect human being. You lack the necessary intelligence and endurance to prevail beyond your own lifetime: so, all you can do to gain some twisted sense of immortality is stick your cock, metaphorically or literally, into the orifices of pedestalized, ordinary women. Don’t you understand that I’m fucking special? That no other female, or human, knowing what I know, would invest so much temporal and compassionate effort into your “relationship.” I avoid wishing pain onto those I presently care about; but, I crave for pain to wrinkle your fucking “pretty” face and I crave for it to dissipate your charm into the building blocks of failure and worthlessness. I crave for you to feel the pangs of immobility and hurt when you comprehend that no other person (of the female gender) will try to squeeze the substance and the genuine raw human condition out of you. To others you’ll be what you always have been, a pretty face to swoon over. A pretty face that leads women to breathlessly confuse the word “love” with “lust.” Stick to your superficiality. It exists for simple people anyways. I hope you learn how to appreciate the beauty of a two-by-three dirt patch, having just previously, freely roamed through the mortal version of the Garden of Eden. I hope you wake up cold and angry, the frozen fingers of fear tying you down to your bed. All you can think about is how your filthy hands let slip a substance of vitality and love. I wish that upon you because you don’t deserve better and you certainly don’t deserve me.
Would you please let my skin melt through your pores? Please, let me show you that spaces are meant be filled, embraced, and let me caress you with the breath of my body. I don’t think you understand that I yearn to touch more than I crave touch for myself. Yet still, it is out of selfishness that I thirst and hunger to trace your outer shell, because the friction feeds my desperation and satisfies the band of archetypes dancing through my mind. I don’t want to possess you, I promise. I only want to mark you with the silly imitations of love. I want to make you a plaything of the wind. I want to reorganize your thoughts and show you that your neurons can paint on canvasses. I want you to want. And no, you don’t have to want me. I don’t need you to want me. But I breathe, still, with more than just my lungs, and I see with more than just my eyes. Don’t play with me like I am your favorite childhood toy; use me and cultivate my mind because there is a garden of Delphic flowers hiding behind these cobwebs of hurt which will illuminate an unseen world to you. I will give you the universe with my fingertips and I will trace the constellations on the scarred skin covering your spine.
There are certain members of the human race who, perhaps due to fear, ignorance, or infinite wisdom, speak only at calculated times. The sound of their silence has the power to either entice your ears with presence, or to ricochet off your being, vacating instead only the dusty corners of a room. And, it is not so much that their vocal chords are dictated by the ticking of an internal or external clock, rather that the essence of their minds is willfully tucked away until articulation proves to be absolutely necessary.
He is like this, a partly mute member of the human race. Besides possessing a selective voice box, he sports ribs which protrude out of the battlefield of his pale chest, ribs which skeletons dream about in their twisted nightmares. “Color me wicked,” they’d scream, if ribs had silver tongues. And while his bones aren’t blessed with the latter, his mouth certainly is.
If you were a passerby, a stranger on the street, you wouldn’t give him a second glance. There’s no reason to burden your eyes, no reason to revisit the presence of a person who swallows his heartbeats and floats by in a cloud of Camel-cigarette smoke. A boy who wears clothes conveniently transported from the closet of a dead seventy year old to the sales rack of a Goodwill. And yet, if your ears had the pleasure of meeting his voice, even only once, you’d crave his words for the rest of your life.
Fortunately, or unfortunately, my ears have been stained and tainted with his rare verbalizations. It’s not that his articulations carry a sense of novelty or radicalness; it’s the way he weaves and strings his words together. A few months of mutual, silent acquaintanceship accumulated in the assimilation of this question, posed by him: “Kseniya, have you ever realized that parks are just little squares of the Earth’s crust, small cohorts of grass and trees that society has collectively decided to not fuck up?”
Or something like that. So why does he matter to me? Mostly because now I truly realize the importance and purpose of the American park system. But also because one day he confessed to me that in some instances he felt as though his veins were made of sinkholes, and this made me realize that he was insane. He changed me because insanity is a tool and a teacher.
I’m definitely a thinker, but I think my strong suit is re-phrasing the ideas of the greats in ways that make sense to people. I wouldn’t be able to bring anything novel to the field, too much has already been explored.
There’s a lipstick stain on his Adam’s apple
And he’s standing in a glass room wondering why the salt water is spilling from his lips still,
When his heart stopped beating
Twenty three minutes ago.
And the air is bitter,
And the air is stale and cold,
And he refuses to inhale
Because he already owes the devil
Two hundred and fifty three breaths.
And now he doesn’t know if the salt is from the water or the empty space behind
And the walls are glass no more
And there’s oxygen flowing to his brain, finally.
In this nightmare, the lipstick stain was mine,
But she was his.
I can’t clearly remember how or when or why or what or whateverthefuck actually matters but I can recall in a haze of feeling that it was among the labyrinth of those birch trees that I first acquired the love of burning flesh.
They say that words slide off your eyes
Supplying meanings which your lips protest and replace
They say that the lingering traces from your fingertips send chills down the spines of even warriors
Yet the icy-hot thaws the frozen place where their hearts used to rise and sink
Like the tides
And speaking of tides they say that your blood tastes of the sea
That the hair on your head mimics the kelp forests which trap the drifters
The ones who don’t walk their own paths
These things build you into a tower
Woven out of diamond dust
Sturdy to the eye
But the wind (from lungs, perhaps mine) Will play with its foundations and create a sandstorm out of the person you think you are
From dust to dust
I want you to know that im standing on top of the motherfucking tower of you
And the shift of weight
From foot to foot
Willful and deliberate
Will suck the words and the ice and the sea and the kelp and the nothingness of something out of you
My ex-lover is dead)