streetlightss

Through the years;; misc.

Tue, 13 Mar 2007 03:52:21 GMT

I was prompted to go through some old stuff.

I am a locked door handle. Leading to a dusty dark little room filled with stories and emotions and memories and mystery. I am one of a million in a long hallway of doors; doors that are open wide, others shut, but unlocked, some are stuck, some are locked, and still some others are deadbolted and chained. But I am only one of many, locked and withholding. One of many of the doors, which all look different, some inviting, some not, some beautiful, some not.

There are people, walking through this hallway, venturing from the safety of their own doors, or maybe there's a way to stay in your door and still try to open other doors along the hallway. There are three kinds of people who walk this hallway, who try these doors, who look for other rooms and other stories and emotions and memories.

There are the people who go into the wide open doors, the unlocked doors. Who pass by the doors that are stuck or locked, and especially those that are deadbolted. They are scared, or uninterested in the doors that are difficult to get into. These people walk by my room, hidden by the locked door, I can feel their eyes gaze over the door, which looks different to everyone, including its owner. They might be intrigued, but not enough to try to jimmy the lock, or find the key.

Then, there are the people who try all the doors, the people who push that extra bit to get into the stuck doors. They try to jimmy the lock, only to this day it's only been less than a handful who have actually been able to open the door all the way into the room, absorbing everything but the shadowed corners and nooks and crannies that might as well be invisible to everyone but those who can describe the room a million miles a way, and even they sometimes miss the dark corners and cobwebbed stacks of packing boxes. Sometimes these people leave as quickly as they come, and well not easily forgotten, they don't leave a stain on the floor as a permanent reminder of what you lost.

And then there are the rest. The ones who move along the hallway quietly, or stayed in their own rooms not expecting to find themselves anywhere but there; not forcing their way into that door of yours, your protective wall, but yet finding themselves inside of the deadbolted or locked room. Somehow closing their eyes and magically slipping through cracks. They don't need to push or shove to get through the door and into the room. Fate, or whatever you wish to believe, led them there and let them in. Suddenly they are there, aware of the corners and cobwebs and emotions and heartbreak. They seem to fill much of the empty space and make the dusty, dark room a little brighter, a little cleaner, a little sweeter. These people can leave and never truly lose their presence in the room, they can come back and never need a key. Their fingerprints open the door automatically. Their eyes see the room without looking. Their presence fills the room when the first foot passes through the door.

This last group of people, who usually surprise you, sometimes scare you, but always know you. This last group, who is meant to be with you. These are the people who God brings you. They are the hands you can hold, the hugs you can expect, the ones who’s simple ability to be can calm you down and make you smile. Somehow, eventually, the rooms connect, divided by a wall and an open door. Their room, your room. You walked into their life as much as they walked into yours. These people will always be attached to you, in some way or another.

For all of the people who have magically slipped through the cracks in my door, who made my room a little brighter, sweeter, cleaner. Thank you. You will never be forgotten. I love you.

You've plagiarized your last life, taking bits and pieces from your victims. You swallow so hard I'm surprised that you don’t choke. I want to kill you, make you taste the blood that still lingers on your hands, from all the hearts you ripped out and stomped on with your combat boots or stiletto heels,
and yet with pale ice eyes you still lure hopeless romantics in, destined to be beaten down, and bitter. But you've cut out my tongue right after you slashed by spirits, and I cant tell them to be careful.
You're everyone, you linger in every set of hands, eyes, lips. You remain in every mind, tongue, touch. We're all tainted by you. Spread through this place, spread through everything. You've conquered.
Yet with every whispered kiss, every shouted confession of long lasting love, promises of breakfast in bed and a broken heart. The rose-dyed-black. The fine print that says that what will be broken will not be paid for, karmically or otherwise, that the warranty is only for 2 years or 200 kisses and can be marked void if the defendant is male-female-young-old-black-white-gay-straight or noted to have 10 or less fingers.
you're the reason we hate commitment, the reason we fear the emotional intimacy and instead head to bed with words unsaid to remind ourselves we're not yet dead and to declare our love (of one night stands and 25 cent Trojan machines on bowling alley walls).

French twist on the words I wish I could say to you
I cascade, collide, starve for all that I know, (or don’t know, and wish I could know.) By heavens marks on my skin, dew drop romance stories that only evaporate as the sun rises, and shines, on reality.
My smile vanished when you said goodbye, and meant it as forever. You took it with you between your teeth and with that I will forever mourn your back to me as you walked out the door.
You knew you killed me.
And yet you laughed in the streets.

Sadly enough, this is the least cringe-worthy. Oh goodness, I wrote some horrible teenage poetry.

ABOUT A BOY I USED TO KNOW ;; JANUARY 3RD 2004

Wed, 03 Jan 2007 08:26:29 GMT

January 3rd. 2004.

Hollow and uncomfortable, she feels almost as though she was a doll, long forgotten about when the child's next birthday came along and got something shiny and new, the Barbie with better hair and clothes. The bigger smile.

Maybe she should be happy that she was the favorite for a while, almost a year. Almost a year that she was played with and loved, the year that he took care of her as though she was his pride and joy. His arm around her tiny little waist, protecting her from the other guys that would get drunk and drool. His caveman instincts coming into play, protecting her. It was nice, it was nice to feel safe and protected against the world, with his arm around her waist.

Now they barely walk together, their talking awkward and shallow. There's no more mall piggy back rides or stealing his hat. No more nicknames and passionate kisses goodbye. She knew it was holding on by a string, and it had already broken once, and she wasn't sure how strong the knot was. She wasn't a girl scout, and he was definitely NOT a boy scout.

No, he was no boy scout, with his dirty blonde hair, determined long strides and smile that could charm the pants off of you. And did, many times. He was no boy scout with the smell of pot still on him when he came in the door and the way he sped through the night to get to their destination. Her heart racing half from the speed and half from being in this boys car, in the passengers seat, and not disappointing him, not yet. No, she was impressing him, with her love of speed and good music. With what he called beauty and she called too much makeup and her quirky way of wearing cat ears like it was as common as a belt.

And when they kissed it was a new thing. She hadn't even known it was a date and then they played like little kids and tickled each other until she was on her back and his head was over hers. They fit. Their lips. Shy at first, but passionate. Admitting to each other that their affection was mutual. Holding hands in the theater until she could barely concentrate on the movie and only seemed to feel his hand, his head, how he moved. The warmth.

Now the only warmth from him comes when he doesn't push all the blankets off of her, and the times when they still cuddle, but focus on the television and not what's going through their heads at any given moment. The warmth doesn't come from a whispered "I love you", not anymore. Those words were barely heard unless she was begging for forgiveness. And she did love him, but she was never sure how he would respond, so she never really said the words. Not out loud. Not to his waking face. And besides, she was sick of being the one to say that word so many times, she wanted to hear his love without the too at the end. But they weren't even sure that it was true.

It was empty without the passion they used to have, and they did have passion, he used to complete her, make her feel special, hold her and look at her like that was enough. Just being there. Lately everything was almost platonic, emotions cramped deep down inside her heart, made so small that they cramped and tried to explode. But no, she had to be strong. She wouldn't allow herself to cry, to whimper, to show anything but what people wanted to see. And oh, how sometimes she wanted to throw her arms around him and just hold him, not say anything, let the world move and just feel the wonderful love again that she used to feel. Allow no space between for cold and distance. Allow no space for anything but the good to come through, to embrace them both, make them both remember how good it used to be.

As much as he hurt her, she came back. Her heart still flipped in her chest when his name was on the caller I.D. or when he opened the door to her house. Even when she was mad. Him coming through the door almost took it all away. Almost. Sometimes the hurt never left, but his smile, the way he made her laugh, his good days, made her want to spend eternity with him. Wanted to spend her life watching him be a big kid, building model cars and chasing her up the stairs to grab her butt.

Those were things she would miss. The little stuff. So she never left. She kept double knotting and hoping someday he would take her of his shelf and treat her like his pride and joy again. His girl. His love. His friend. His perfect. So she waits. And hopes that when he comes through the door today he'll love her

INSPIRED BY ;; MUSIC

Wed, 03 Jan 2007 08:25:13 GMT

23 Sep 2006

Her bed is big and lonely, the boys come and go leaving a mixture of different colognes on her pillow. She can't remember their names, their faces, their likes and dislikes. They all think they're in love with her, but none of them know who she really is. They haven't searched inside her soul, felt her heavy heart, wiped away her tears when she dug her nails into her skin because she couldn't stand to be trapped inside her body. It had been a long time since she'd been touched by anyone that was worth remembering.

She takes too many pills and washes them down with vodka. Stumbling and dancing and hugging and kissing and fucking and it's all the same. The world swirls and her name is called but she only sees the stars. The only time she feels is when she's sober so she never is. She doesn't remember what its like to see straight or wake up without a hangover, but life is fine that way. Better a headache than a heartache. Better having sex than making love.

She's not a slut, a lush, or any of those names she's called behind her back, she's just a lonely girl with insecurities and a losing faith. She refuses to cry anymore, so she screams instead. It's not perfect, but it works. It gets her by, and that's all that matters.

* inspired by Dirty Business - The Dresden Dolls.

FRAGMENTS ;; AUGUST 07, 2004

Sat, 04 Mar 2006 20:20:16 GMT

Words to use:

in her hair
the music was

It wasn't meant to be. That night, that way. Those words weren't meant to get caught in her hair, somewhere near her ear so that she would hear them repeating themselves constantly.
It started out differently, the street lights gleaming as dusk settled over our part of the world. She laughed, and the music was noise compared to the harmony of her laugh, her voice, her eyes. I had never known love, or was it lust?, before her. I had never wanted to capture a moment in time and save it for eternity, so I could share it with my children and grandchildren and shout "This is love! This is perfection! Don't stop until you find this!"
It was easy to see her imperfections - they weren't hidden. She didn't try to hide them and somehow that made all the difference.

ABOUT A BOY I USED TO KNOW ;; PART IV - FINAL

Sat, 04 Mar 2006 20:12:48 GMT

He's like a drug to me.
I get a little bit of him and I want moremoremore.
But then I crash and I realize how stupid and out of control I am.

ABOUT A BOY I USED TO KNOW ;; PART III

Sat, 04 Mar 2006 20:10:48 GMT

now i regret ever wanting to ask you to leave me alone
just so i wouldnt get hurt
when you walked out the door for the last time
and the first time that you would never come back

now im glad that we can lay here in silence
and the hum of your heart and the blur of your words
can lull me to sleep
and i dont have to worry about waking up alone

now im glad we can kiss in public
and hold hands in the streets
i would love to scream hearts from the rooftops
of skyscrapers
so the world can see that i am capable of happy

and i guess im still afraid you'll say this is over
that im just not enough to keep your heart beating
maybe if i hold you tight enough
kiss you long enough
play with your hair is just the right way
you'll stay

and i guess im afraid of falling
its too late now though you say
its too late because the ground beneath my feet
is only air and the wind in my hair is from the rushing up
of everything i was afraid of.

but right now i'll pretend that your lips will keep the crash
from happening too soon
and i'll be happy with arms that hold me right
and hands that keep me warm and breathing heavy,

right now i'll remember yesterday and pray for today
right now i'll believe in us instead of endings
you say i can trust you
and in many ways i do
but i dont know if i trust myself
and i guess that was always the real problem with you.

ABOUT A BOY I USED TO KNOW ;; PART II

Sat, 04 Mar 2006 20:08:11 GMT

I hear the familiar door slam, first the screen and then the main door. Then the shoes come off and there’s a well-known run up the stairs, not making much noise with his bare feet on the carpet. He enters into the room slowly, with confidence, he doesn’t need to knock, then walks over to the big king size bed, sits down, takes off his hat and hoody and proceeds to make my nicely placed blankets, and sometimes me, his pillows. He looks at me with a playful smirk, knowing that I won’t say anything, because I’m still recovering from the butterflies I’ve had since the door opened. It’s not that I let him walk all over me, I just don’t happen to mind as much as I pretend too.
Over the past year I’ve gotten to know his features well. They’re a photograph in my mind. From his dirty blonde hair, to his scars, to his determined “man with a mission” walk. I’ve seen the cut of the blonde hair change at least a dozen times, short, long, spiked, messy. I know the stories behind all the scars. And I’m starting to learn to keep up with the walk. He is stunning, although I don’t think he knows it as much as he pretends too. Perfect cheek bones lie beneath eyes that change from blue to green, or are sometimes almost completely covered by his pupils. There’s a scar on his left jaw line that I’ve traced many times, falling in love with the imperfection it brings, the history it tells. Another scar falls below his bottom lip, dulled white from when he was a child. Another near his eye.
He’s of average height, about four or five inches taller than me, and I can rest my head in the crook where his shoulder meets his neck when we hug. He always stands impatiently, even when he’s quite satisfied being where he is. But there’s always a look behind his eyes that lets you know he wants to experience something new, go, move, try something else; maybe not at that second, but someday, somewhere. His frame is covered in jeans that are slung low, showing his boxers, and shirts that we could probably both fit into. Names like Billabong and Bullshead. And then there’s that awful secret service shirt that says “your girlfriend’s coming with me.”

He plays bass and guitar. His arm muscles move as his fingers play the strings, flying from chord to chord as though it was natural, just like walking or breathing. A deep concentration in his eyes, mixed with joy and sometimes frustration. Mostly it’s relaxation though, an escape. He seems to get lost in his music, sometimes stopping to tell an anecdote or quiz me on the song. It’s mesmerizing watching him play, filling my stomach with those butterflies again as my eyes switch from his face to his hands to his arms.
The look on his face can tell you his emotions. His smile is something to wait for, count down too; even if it takes all day. The playfulness of his personality, the part of him that chases me up the stairs or blows raspberries on my belly, is something that most people won’t ever let show. I love that part of him. His ability to be silly. Sometimes though, it’s solemn in those eyes, in that heart. I can tell, even if he doesn’t think so. It’s a feeling I get, when he gets down on himself, or starts thinking about memories he doesn’t want to remember, or having to deal with the stress of growing up. Those are the times when I have to decide whether to let him be, or bug him until he ends up laughing. I try to make him happy as best I can.
But there’s so much more than the very good and the very bad. It’s the way he looks at me, the expression he gets on his face, the one I can’t quite figure out what it means. There’s the way when I can be so jumbled and tense, and just laying next to him relaxes me, because I can live in the moment of his heartbeat. Perhaps it’s rather cliché to say, but he is truly my rock.
And I have yet to scratch the surface of his persona. So much more to learn and grow to love. I’m not sure there’s even enough time to uncover the deep mystery that lies inside that chest cavity, those eyes, those lips. I long to know more though. He has the ability to draw me into his life, make me not want to let go until I’m physically pushed away, and even then I think I would fight for one more smile, kiss, conversation.

ABOUT A BOY I USED TO KNOW ;; PART I

Sat, 04 Mar 2006 19:57:59 GMT

He was ten minutes late. I sat on my couch, ears alert for cars pulling into my driveway. I was sure that he had stood me up and his friends were having a good laugh about it. I wasn't exactly popular, and his friends didn't exactly like me, why did I ever think that he was serious? Here I am, all dressed up, getting cat hair all over my black shirt, staring at the clock and watching as the second hand went a full 180 around the clock again and again. I wasn't sure if this was even a date or not. I felt pathetic.
And then, the doorbell rang. I jumped up, heart beating and a wave of relief washing over me. I looked through the peephole, which was un-needed in my quiet suburban neighborhood, but often used to hide away from solicitors and the mailman when I was still in my pajamas. And there he was, dressed in his orange hoody, freshly showered and making my heartbeat faster and faster. I quickly forgot that I was mad at him for being a few minutes late and opened the door with a big stupid grin on my face. I felt like I should buy him a car for even being here.
I shut off all the lights in my house, grabbed my cell phone (which I never really used because I hated phones but was always good in case of an emergency) and headed out to his car. Conversation was surprisingly easy, I was sure that as soon as we were out of school my language skills would melt away to nodding and uncomfortable laughter, one step short from losing my speech all together. We talked about the usual, music, cars (he talked, I nodded and added in the few bits and pieces that I knew from my stepfather), and our pasts. We both carried a lot of the same emotional baggage around and it was comforting to talk to him, it's not everyday that you find a person that you can talk to about that kind of personal history about without even knowing them outside of school and a few quick phone calls.
Our drive to Hartford went fast, our time spent there went even faster. Our plan was to see the Ra concert, free and loud. A perfect combination. Until we were told the concert was being sponsored by a beer company, so, 21 and over please. Neither one of us were 21 or over. I was 15 and he was 18, and even though together we were well past 21, there was no chance that they would let us in. So, we trudged back to the car and tried to figure out where to go from there. There was no point to end a perfectly good Friday night. And even if there was I could have rattled off a list of reasons why we shouldn't. Fortunately, I didn't have too.
The ride back to Middletown ended my disappointment instantly. We sped along, the lights at night mixing and blurring. It was almost a dream like state. I could have driven around in circles all night with him and the lights and the music and the conversation and still called that night the best night of my life. He remarked on my love for speed, admiring the fact that I wasn't clinging for dear life at the door handle as he weaved through cars, reaching almost to the 100 mph on the speedometer. I trusted him, it was as easy as that.
The exit back to Middletown came too soon, and we headed over to Metro Square, hoping for a movie to check out, anything to give us more time together. We chose a movie, “Gangs of New York”, which was playing an hour later, with nothing else to do he parked in the middle of the parking lot. My heart raced, now, when conversation is most important, these are the times I’m usually at a loss for words. And commenting on the weather (cold, by the way) was no way to win a second date, or whatever this was. But somehow again, the words came, and the radio helped us along our way. But the funny thing is, I only remember one thing… the kiss, okay, the kiss and hitting my head on his car window, but the kiss is much more important.
Somehow, we ended up tickling each other. Physical contact, butterflies, I remember these things. Somehow his head ended up over mine, I was still laughing from being tickled and my hand flew up, for reasons unknown, and just as he was about to catch his lips with mine… I hit him in the head.
I hit him in the head. This was how our first kiss went. Me, at 15, on my first real date, with this guy I liked so much, and I hit him in the head.
Luckily a little brain damage didn’t turn him off from his mission. The kiss. Our lips met, and a wave of butterflies tumbled through my stomach. His smell, his taste, his eyes, it all hit me. The moment stopped, the quote “Life is not measured by how many breaths you take, but how many moments take your breath away” describes that moment perfectly. That kiss turned into a Polaroid picture in my mind. He whispered, “I’ve wanted to do that for so long”. And all I could do was smile. The last two months flashed into my mind, the shared stares, the first conversation, walking me to lunch, breaking up with my boyfriend for this moment. It all meant something. It all culminated and started, at this moment.
But I still didn’t want him to pay for my ticket. We argued over that, and he won. But I put up a good fight.
We held hands during the movie, I concentrated more on that, his arm around my shoulder, his head resting on mine, than I did on the movie. The kiss replayed in my mind. And when the screen filled with credits and the theater was flooded with light again, even though my butt was going numb and I was falling asleep, I would have watched the movie over again just so I could feel his fingers clasped over mine.
Walking through the theater, being stared at by girls from our school, who looked at me like I was a plague attaching myself to this guy. We both knew that rumors would fly and by Monday morning I would either be pregnant or a slut. Of course this date was all my fault. The girl with too much eyeliner and weird friends going out with this blond haired class clown that all the girls started drooling over as soon as he stepped foot in this school.
It didn’t phase us for long, and we still had half an hour left before my curfew. Parking behind the school we talked again, he smoked a cigarette and I listened to the music fill the car. We shared another breath taking, mind-blowing kiss. And too soon, it was time to go home. My heart sank and I wondered if this date was going to be the last.
He walked me to the door and we kissed goodnight, a sweet kiss. And I wandered into the house floating. A moment to measure life by.