hmm , i suck at titles .

[xunpredictablel]

|Title| Untitled.
|Rating| R


you reach up and you touch me
ethereal is the way you smile
you reach down and you kiss me
but it doesn't feel real.

i don't really feel your skin
as you're lying there in my bed
or are you ? it all seems like a bittersweet
catastrophe . are you truly even
existant ?

you whisper my name in the dark,
but only cause i whisper yours
so bitterly, so lustfully ,
dripping off my tongue like
saliva begging to digest.

and i'm not scared , but maybe you should be.
i'm not scared cause i'm the worst of me .
should you run away ?
i plead for you to stay , but survival
of the fittest matters anyway.

i swear that i'll touch you
and i can swear that i'll love you
but maybe for a little while…
does it scare you - the palpability of me leaving ?
the fact that you couldn't be enough to
make me stay for a little longer -
a day ?

can i touch you with that promise ?
a promise that you'll see me never,
never again after we touch,
fuck, kiss me kiss me one more time
cause it'll be the kiss of your dreams .

your solemn serenity (oh, and you like alliteration)
plagues me . how you think about her when i'm
right right here , begging for perfection ,
begging for you to tell me how to be perfect .
solemn integrity - you don't utter one word to me
on how to change .

can i whisper a question?
or three, let me answer them with you.
they haunt me like the sky on a
bittersweet winter night
too silent to be bothered
and too thick to penetrate .

would you hold me ?
i know the answer, it scares me .
i don't want your silent ways noting
the way i smile when you fuck me ,
rape me , suck you .
i'm not scared to lose my little girl scent…
or am i?

your pheromones smell all wrong ,
like a little boy i've known for too long
but your comforting gaze and tender - er ways
lure me into submission,
since you know i like that anyway.

can i want you enough to let you go
or are my selfish ways too lurking
to let you slip away from my
grasping fingers,
like a miracle of an accident
let you go so you can
BREATHE
and i can sit in misery, alone .
but you won't be quite here ,
so how could i complain?

this room of misery is no game .

the windows are locked , the doors all closed
and barred from another side.
the walls painted black ,
boarded glass to let the sunshine through
but the skies outside are just as dark as
the whispering i do to you .
the bed is perfect for sex .
but it chains love to the ceiling ,
plastered right there , just above my reach because
i taste you in his kisses , i feel you in his skin .
and for a man i so despise , you're so there to idolize .

this bed is perfect for sex .
but love is captured within it , pulsing
beneath me as i rest , a tease
for me; i rip open the mattress to get
a taste of the bird that flies too high.
when i tear off the fabric, my nails are cracked and my face
is strained .
underneath is just a pillowed substance .
i cry aloud and lay against this, i can feel
the pulsing beneath my skin.

but where, oh where .
so i can give you what i want you to deserve .

[Alicia's Ghost]

This poem is pure misery. I've been trying to come up with a way to speak about it, as if it were an object, as if this poem were separate from both of myself and you..... but the truth is that this strikes way too close to my heart for me to pull out the thorns and not hate them. This poem reminds me of happy times, of terrible times -- it's a jumbled up confusion that just pulses and aches and withers away what resolution I can gather. To give you proper feedback, I should cut away these things and tell you what I see in this poem, what I like and what I think could be changed, but it is not possible. So I will tell you what is in my heart and hope that it will suffice.

You watch these actors and actresses on TV playing out a scenario that is over cliche; you watch their mouths say the words in a script that makes no sense to you. You laugh at them, sometimes, because they are so melodramatic, ripping at their hair, their clothes, when they are left at the alter; watching a man drink himself into a coma because of a wife who had died five years ago; watching the blue seep across a woman's lips as she stands out in the cold, staring at the apartment of an ex, knowing she won't be able to go in but not having the courage to leave. Even if it's forty feet, it's as close as she'll ever get to him again and she treasures it even as her fingers go numb. These stories are stupid, melodramatic -- these characters that run around in circles, bouncing from one person to the next, driven by this past memory -- you watch them on tv, you watch them dance and move on a stage, you hear this story on the other end of the phone as your friend cries her heart out, not sure what to do. You think, and you can just see stupidity there, not understanding why she can't stay away from someone who c heats on her, who hurts her.

I read this poem, and countless stories flash through my head, countless heart aches strung together by pain, misery, adversity. In the movies though, several years pass in a blink of an eye, a scrolling of a little header saying Pittsburgh, January 2015 -- and the heroin is happy again, in love again, beautiful again. They never linger on the painful bits -- you never see what your friend looks like at night when she clutches her pillow, what your friend looks like after he's drunk too much and can't stand up right. You're not there to see how much he secretly cries, bleeding out his despair. These things are shallow examples -- you know it for truth, you know what is happening, but the empathy is gone. This poem... this dreadful, terrible poem is that space between 2010 and 2015. This poem is between alcohol poisoning and smiling. These emotions, knotted up inside of you, unwilling to let you go, are the missing links between the beginning of sadness and the end of happiness.

What they don't tell you, and what I've found to be true -- it is not funny. Countless plays, movies, tv shows, books, reality shows make fun of this stage, trying to brighten something dark and terrible. They laugh when a girl on a reality show is crying on the phone because she wants to go home. They laugh when a man's dreams is crushed by a harsh criticizer. They laugh when they see your friend stumble from his chair and out the door, knowing he is reaching for his keys and he has no one to get him home. It is a sad, serious thing.

So when I read this, I do not make light of it: it is a well written poem, but the need for writing it is a terrible thing. Jumping forward into a relationship that isn't a relationship at all, trying to blind yourself to a past you know is bad for you...but can't convince your heart of the truth .... these things are not funny. They are miserable. They are terrible -- these will be the darkest parts of your life. Perhaps I should be responsible and say that this is just one heartache that will pass. When you look back on your high school self you will laugh at how badly you reacted to it. But that isn't so -- simply because you have never felt it before, or because of age, or circumstance doesn't mean it does not hurt, does not mean it does not dig deep into your heart and fester. You want him, and don't want him. You know the truth but feel reality. There is something precious about him, hidden under all of that scum. Does the other girl see it too? Or does she simply date him because she can?

This poem signifies simply the beginning of the war. I wish you luck. Let me tell you that is it not going to be fun, but that I do know what you're going through. I question everything, strike out at everything, linger over every hurt, every compliment, every tender, terrible moment and wonder how it got to be so complicated -- how I got to be this girl I see in the mirror every morning, every night. I wonder, too, when I will stop hugging my pillow at night like it is a lifeline; when I will be able to hear a song and not smile, ever so slightly, reminded of him; when will I be able to sleep a night through without reaching out for the opposite side of the bed where he used to sleep. These things I know, these things I remember and cannot let go.

[xunpredictablel]

Heh... As I read your response, I knew something would go down . It was so long and thought out that it obviously was going to provoke a response in me. I didn't know what, but I definitely feared it.

Him being gone is this horrible thing, like a piece of rotten meat paired with rotten cheese and spoiled milk , and I have to eat every single bite. He's gone, and GOD I miss him. I miss him with every fiber of my being . It takes all of my willpower to just not think about him. Yet he still sneaks into my subconscious, when someone brings something up, I think 'oh, here's what he thought about that.' I tell myself he was stupid and horrid to me, all of which is true - but you're so right, underneath everything there was this amazing man that I had very obviously fallen completely in love with him . I've tried so hard to tell myself that it wasn't love and it could never have been - that we were too rotten to each other for it to be love. But it was - underneath all that nastiness, again, there was this amazing feeling I had for him. This comfort that I had, knowing that he was there, right underneath my fingertips, and all I had to do was press ever so slightly and he'd know immediately what was wrong, and I could call him in the middle of the night 20 times and he wouldn't question me for an instant. The only thing that would roll off of his tongue would be "oh babygirl, what's wrong?" and God, that was glorious. I loved him so much for everything he did to me. It's so hard letting go of him and realizing that we're two different people. Since we're not together anymore, we're not us anymore, and I'm not his Caitlyn and he's not my Chris. He's not the pampered little sensitive boy who cries over silly things and I'm not the overly demanding, unfaithful, wretched girl anymore.

But through this bitterness I CAN see the light. I can see me going to college - I can see the future, which is so palpable, though so so far away . I'm not scared of this hurting me for forever, because I can feel it now, while typing this, while crying, that this is only temporary. This hurt is so temporary. It'll be so intense for a while longer - at least for the rest of the summer. More likely for half of the school year on top of that. But I can feel the Caitlyn waiting to break out on top of this - the strong, willing Caitlyn. Heartbreaker Caitlyn. I'm not scared to let him go anymore. It's just so gradual. One wrong slip, if I let go of too much of the rope at one time, I'll regress right back into it.

The funny thing is, I think I needed this oh so badly. I still cut while I was with him, and though I've been tempted, I have not set foot near my closet (where it happens) . I've considered it, and then fallen asleep. Sleep is such a good friend anymore. I've fallen in love with it. But then, I'm not handling this the right way. I'm lovers with my best friend, just because I need his warmth beside me - something a woman could never fill. A man's arms to run to while I cry, a man's arms to hold me for two minutes before he leaves .

I wish I could tell you how much your reply means to me. I haven't cried in a long time , because I'm avoiding this wretched pain until it's dulled . But it still breaks through. I still think about sex with him, because he was my first and pretty much my only . I still think about him right before sleep - I almost imagine his arms around me. Then I try so hard to snap out of it and imagine holding my daughter . Because someday, oh Lord, someday, I'll be okay again. A man will come to me and swoop me away, I'll have such higher standards and I pray that I'll get a man that's worthy of me. Although Chris was precious, he didn't deserve me. He fits so much better with his new girlfriend, which is more bitter-tasting than anything I've ever experienced. His new girlfriend is probably a slut who will sleep with him instead of holding onto her integrity and sanity until after high school. She'll go to his shows and be his groupie and hang all over him. She'll let him cling to her, she'll let him hurt himself, she'll let him do drugs and alcohol and smoke as much as he wants to in a day. She'll let him stay unhealthy , and unclean . She'll laugh if he doesn't take showers instead of grimace at his greasy hair. Maybe she's everything he needs, after me, the opposite of everything I am.

I'm not scared anymore , because someday, I'll find someone who's more like me. More loving and strong and independent . Someone who will stay on the phone with me all night , who will still listen to me cry, but tell me when I'm being silly . I'll find someone who WILL dance with me when I ask pretty please, no matter where or when. I'll find someone who will understand my romantic tendencies - who will understand my poetry and ideas and thoughts. I swear this more than anything, I will find that someone.

And honestly ? That's one of the few things giving me hope anymore. I'm going to visit family in utah soon , soon , and I'm so excited to immerse myself in the family's goofy tendencies. Honestly ? The thing I miss most about him is the free cigarettes . God, how easy that was to hide from my parents . I miss the buzz. Heheh.

I can almost tolerate it if I don't think about it for a while, you know ? It tortures my subconscious, but my subconscious and I are greatest enemies right now .