family.love.madonna.

The watery eyes are worth the words of beauty. I feel the sixties reaching out to me when you speak, and the ebony ink against the yellowing page reminds me of the tips of your fingers after you smoked too many cigarettes.

Your lungs gave out on you? Or was it just your soul?

My grandfather died with a lump on his head, and all I can remember were the dozens of crows that stood outside of the nursing home where his bandaged/turbaned head drooped to the left and my mother cried, her black curls brushing faintly across her rouged cheeks.

My father is distant, cold, but not intentionally...at least, that's what I tell myself. My crimped handwriting pales in comparison to his engineer's block print, every number perfect. He told me that carpenters use square pencils so that they won't roll off the roof, and once, he threw my math book across the counter when I could not understand.

But really, it wasn't his fault...I'm stubborn. Born Taurus, born hard-headed, if you place your belief in stars.

My mother uses a lot of hairspray. The plated gold of the doorknob to her bathroom is dull now from all the aerosal-liberated clumps of goo. She is consistent, punctual and ordinary, but our eyes are mirror images of each other.

My brother and sister have dark hair and flashing features with pale skin. He is a mathmatical whiz, and she is the picture of youthful vigor as she stretches her legs over the diagonal black stripes. His eyes stare into Colorado mountains, but she looks at the insides of things and remains unattached and unemotional. I'm proud of both of them, but especially her...she mastered the art of how to deal long before I did.

The wool hat that I have for no reason because I never wear it still sits in my blue wicker basket, begging to be used, but I refuse it because it reminds me of approximately one year ago this November when I wore hats and that boy said he liked it when I did. Begging to be used, ha...I guess that's ironic, right?

No, this won't be a sad song.

Six minutes until Halloween is over, and on the radio today, they asked if you would dress your daughter up as Major Flirt, a sexy soldier. I choose to dress up as nothing, as the black eye make-up makes my eyes water, and I save that suffering for precious words from her.
Eight year olds in short skirts make me sick, but if Madonna says it's okay, it must be true.

After all, she adopts starving children, so that means she is right.

Thanksgiving is coming soon, and there will be too much food and I will watch my father cut the white meat out for me and look the other way when I swipe the best parts. That's how I know he loves me.

My Precious will come with her white hair and benevolent smile and hug me, enveloping me with her baby powder/Mary Kay lipstick smell. Gary is the only one who can call me Kate and make it sound nice instead of harsh and ugly. He has large hands, and his balding head almost scrapes the doorframe when he slides our glass door open.

They always take coffee when my parents offer it and stay and Gary's laugh rings throughout the house and everyone is happy and smiling over the rims of their steaming mugs.

And they all love me, oh yes, they do.

snowglobes

I still shake up my snowglobes and watch the white flecks of "snow" fall to cover the village/teddy bear/swan/basket of flowers that are surrounded by the transparent orb of glass.

There's some sense of comfort in winding up the metal spring that releases a soaring but cliche melody of delicate plinking sounds.

I always liked the drowsy ending of the music box, when the key turns slower and the notes regress into a ritardando that slowly slices away like sheet music lifted gently in the wind, whipping away into oblivion.

The sharp click that sounds when the music stops always jerked me out of my dream-like reverie, sending me crashing back down to my time-warp of a childhood room.

I broke one of my sister's snowglobes by bouncing on her bed when it was sitting, inexplicably, on her quilt, sending it soaring to the swirling wooden floor. The crashing emitted a cacaphony of dissonant notes, scaring me almost as much as the shattering of glass.

The water ran out slowly and seeped through the cracks in the floor. Little grainy white pieces clung to the figure of a kitten, and the jagged edges of the once-perfect sphere gave me an unsettling feeling.

Most of all, I could not forget those horrible notes.

It's funny how the most beautiful treasure, when broken, can be the most awful sight.

Religious fanatics scare me

Class was long today, but after extracting myself from the world of geology, I was met with the slap of cold air on my face and the sounds of an older man yelling...about going to hell?

My interest piqued, I joined the growing crowd of students that were pushing closer to the grey-haired man in a houndstooth suit that held up a sign that proudly listed all of the people who were going to hell:
Rock n' Rollers
Sodomites
Feminists
Alcoholics
Dopers
Liars

A red-head in a tie-dyed shirt puffed on her cigarette as she asked the man why people who listen to rock and roll were going to hell. He began quoting from Matthew (a verse that really didn't answer her questions) and the translation he used further alienated her, as it was filled with high filuten words that only those raised in the church really understand.

He kept proclaiming that we must "repent" and be saved from "the flames of hell."

He had hit on the single most effective way to alienate and frustrate a campus of college students who partake in many of these hell-bound actions and further perpetuated the stereotype of the fanatical Christian who judges all others.

A girl with short dark hair and three piercings pushed her way to the front of the crowd and began asking him why he was being so judgemental.
He peered down his thick glasses and stared at the tattoo adorning her forearm and began to berate her piercings and her "body modifications."

Astonished, she began yelling, asking him why he thought "he was God" and who was he to judge her?

Laughing, he merely asked, "You thought I was God? I am just NOBODY talking about SOMEBODY who has died for your sins! HALLELUJAH!"

Various people began yelling at him, but their comments slid right off his back. It was clear he came here to be persecuted and to stir up trouble so that he could go home at the end of the day, relax on his couch and think to himself, "I have done good today. I was persecuted in the name of Christ and met with adversity today, but I preached the word, and though I suffered, surely God looks up on me with favor."

God is love. There is freedom in Christ.

I only have one question for him. Is that your definition of Christ's love?

I'll shiver in the cold, but will you ever really look at me again?

My hair fell over one eye today as I tried to hide the fact that when you look at me, there is nothing more to find. Dead woman walking, maybe, but I prefer the term emotionally frigid girl who really doesn't give a damn about her own lack of feelings. It takes longer to say, but I like it.

I washed my hands too many times today, causing a trillion skin cells to commit suicide in protest. As I nurse my chafing hands, my eyes glazed over, further affirming my suspicion that I have no feelings left to exploit. Lucky you.

The eyes are the window to the soul, but that means nothing if the curtains are drawn.
Living behind a veil might be thrilling for a breath in time, but when the urge to tear it down overwhelms me, I find that my fingers refuse.

Today, I ran through that street and up the pine needle-strewn steps where I sat with you last winter and all I could think about was how weak I was and how cold you were, and now look at us...distant strangers that avoid eye contact whenever possible (at least I do) and I will shove my sunglasses up my nose so that you cannot see my dead eyes and you will pretend not to see me while my flats smack the sidewalk obviously and the faint scent of your cologne chokes me again...

I'll see you tomorrow, of course. It will be at the one place where you can perfect your vain visage to the masses and I will stumble in quietly and sit in the back with my scarf still twisted around my neck, ready to leave at a moment's notice, especially when you deem it necessary to lock eyes with me. You always were so good, were you not?

I do not want you to see me looking so hollow. In fact, I do not want you to see me at all, and I do not want to see you.

I cannot wait for the moths to chew holes in the thick curtains that hang low in my sockets. When those threads finally give way and I can see clearly again, I sure as hell will not be looking for you.

Hazy View

I stood at the show last night, watching the mass of urban scenesters push their way closer to the stage as the security guard demanded that I fit my feet on the concrete floor of the pit. I sighed and shoved my toes further in toward the blonde in the Ramones shirt that was standing close enough for me to smell the Herbal Essences in her hair.

Observing is half the fun at a show, and I was in my element, quietly watching the hipsters silently eye each other's tattoos and judging the style choices of the girls who had so clearly come only for their boyfriends, not for the music.

A smoker lit up behind me, blowing his cancer cloud toward the back of my neck, giving me a hazy view of the requisite row of blonde style mavens hanging out on the railing to the right. As the band played, they merely nodded their heads in time with the changing beat, refusing to show any more indicators that they actually liked the music.

However, deeper in the pit, the over-the-top fans were trying hard to show the band how much they adored their lyrics by intermittently pumping their fists and folding their black-nailed fingers into the international symbol for rock.

One boy stood silently next to me. His hands clutched the required band tee that every avid concert-goer obtains, but his similarity to the rest of the people in the crowd ended there. His worn fleece pullover was pilling with age, and his hair, though shaggy, did not angle diagonally over one eye like the rest of the crowd. My eyes were fixed on his grey sleeve, but his eyes were fixed on the stage. He did not move. He did not sway to the music. He did not break his stare of allegiance to his favorite band. With his hands in his pockets, he did not sing along with the lyrics, yell cliche rock concert cheers or even blink, for that matter.

When the set was finally over, he pulled his hands up to give five strong claps and nothing more. With a dazed, awe-struck look in his eyes, he turned away from the stage and walked out of the haze, my eyes boring holes in the back of his head.

Emotionless

The surgery that removed my attachment to you inevitably removed all of my emotion.

Beautiful fall afternoons will evoke a swelling feeling of completion, but lately, I cannot say that the spark of love in someone's eyes would do the same.

So, like a baby, I'll tug on my ear when it aches, secretly hoping someone will shove some sort of miracle drug down my involuntary throat.

Sure, I will cry and scream, but the familiar flickering of sensitivity will be welcome. I scorn those whose hearts are undeniably easy to ascertain, but maybe I actually long to be as easy to comprehend.

People revel in their complexity, but oftentimes, I find myself wishing that everything really was as it seemed. The thrill of the chase would be lost, but I've been sitting on the same dilapidated porch step for months now, refusing to take even two steps forward, so would it really be that different?

I'm surrounded by those vapid people who live for the clutch of alcohol, but perhaps my own vice is worse. Better to be drunk off emotions than sober with no feeling at all.

dead RVs

Scarves that I wound around my neck choke me as the itch of the wool catapults me to that broken down RV park that you took me to. The shimmering shards of broken beer bottles littered the place, turning the desolate landscape to a crystal garden.

That crudely assembled bench is still there, with the same nails sticking out. We sat there until the cold became too much to bear and you told me all about her.

The gently sloping hill gave way to a pathetic stream, strewn with old tires and 2 x 4 planks. Your eyes followed the trickling path until it bent around the brush and out of sight.

The hollow eyes of the blown out windows of the mammoth RVs stared at me bleakly as we left. Their sockets had no plugs, and their life was invariably extinguished until the rust consumed their shells. The carcass of a log lolled unsettlingly as we retreated in the distance, and a shiver ran through my heart, for I knew that these signs of death could not be good for us.

The Silence Choked Us

The lake was beautiful.

An air of death and stifled regrets hung around the playhouse, scrawled with brightly colored chalk messages of high school crushes. The fleeting sun blinded me as I stepped inside, taken aback by the musty scent of age that should never accompany the haunt of a young girl.

He was solemn as he showed me her favorite stuffed bear and her small handprint on a circular plate of porcelain.

I was silent as he haltingly walked around the width of the tiny structure, pacing nervously as if he expected her to come bounding in any moment. She was a light to him, extinguished far too soon.
We finally ducked our heads and stepped outside, and I breathed a sigh of release, glad to be free of such a constricting memory. His sadness was palpable, and I smoothed my fingertips over the creases of worry cutting across his forehead.

The lake was hers, and I felt like an intruder. He clasped my hand as we walked around past the marshes and whistling cattails, and I could not speak, for words did not seem wise.

The sun had melted into the horizon, leaving the dense settling of twilight on our shoulders. The royal hues of purple seemed fit for the princess she was, and the rosy tinge of red on the horizon was a mirror image of the flush that crept across my cheeks each time I saw him.

The spindly branches of a bare birch tree stretched to the sky against the deep sky, and a tantalizing sliver of the haunting moon shone brightly to the left.

He tried to verbalize pent up feelings, but the silence choked us, leaving us sitting in the dew-damp grass, counting our thoughts as the luminous moon rose above the line sketch of the tree, now consumed by the dark.

As we rose, our feet left prints in the shimmering grass as we left the silvery lake behind.

Her whispers in his ear broke his silence, and I was left with my hand still around my neck, choking all words of comfort.

Nostalgia?

We always had it good, didn't we, baby? Sneaking around was a thrill, but the funny thing about walking on eggshells is that the shards got imbedded in our heels, eventually making it impossible to move forward.

So, you know me...I just quit trying to like your music and the layer of dust that coated your room from years of racing around on the back roads.

The sunlight that filtered through the trees today reminded me of when we first stood side to side, staring straight ahead but still managing to be sweetly aware of each other's presence. Two feet and two years separated us, but those were just numbers, baby...we never were good at math.

The memory is a strange device. I remember late nights outside, shooting old fireworks and irritating the neighbors. I can't forget sitting on the icy concrete, watching your thin legs stretch to the rusty chain net as my own legs slowly went numb. I remember your ancient guitar, a gift from some obscure family member. Do you still remember the song you wrote me or has it become a despicable memory as well?

Hate me. Go ahead. Hate the parking lot of the bank and the idling car we sat in for three hours. Hate rhythms you beat out to me. Hate the insensitive girl I became.

Most of all, hate those damn eggshells. We will never be able to dig them out of our aching feet, baby.

Living in a Dreamworld

The edges of your face were blurred, but it wasn't from tears, my dear. Don't flatter yourself.

Perhaps it was the dusty pane of light streaming through the splotched window that gave your visage that angelic glow. Ironically, you were anything but heavenly to me at that moment.

Deities had nothing on you in my mind until December finally came, constricting me with the constant feeling of closure in the air and frost on my chapped lips. Maybe I had the feathered wings right, but you could only soar so high, falling far short of the stratosphere where cherubs reside.

Their rosy cheeks could not compare to mine that day as I stepped away from the unfocused planes of your face, stumbling as if I couldn't get away fast enough.

The sour taste in my mouth wasn't from your paltry excuse for a x-mas gift but rather from the steel grey feeling of blood where I gnawed the left side of my cheek to shreds as you watched me silently.

I was the girl with her heart in her hand, on her sleeve and around her neck. You were the boy who traced his chest faintly around the area where the heart is, forgetting that it is more than skin deep.

I felt on the verge of dreamland and my mind was hazy as I backed away, wondering if I should surrender to the cliche and pinch my slack arm in a feeble attempt to shake away the clouds that gathered around my head.

The slush gathered at the edges of my shoes had melted, and I had been there for too long.
I slid my heart in my pocket, gently prised it off my sleeve and tucked it back inside my sweater. You brushed your feathers off, ridding yourself of all reminders of me and willed me to find love again.

I pushed open the decrepit door, and like Lot's wife, looked over my shoulder one last time, even though I should not. The taste of salt captivated my lips.

Your face is now unrecognizable, but I swear, I am not crying.