how many times have i stood in that front hallway crying myself goodbye to the boys i love. i can hear him in the parking lot, now. the hum of the bike waiting to pull away.

when i try to sleep. my wrists bend hands away from my body. like some strange voiceless offering for peace.

today there is more sleep than awake. making up for days on days of walking dead. i feel like i've been drinking gasoline and searching for matches.

i am blown egg shells under thick soled shoes

i can already tell this morning that, today, i'm not going to make it to the gym.

Useless I. Bank shoulder to chin. Lean and teeth clench. Tongue hold to holy roofs. One tedious slide. This error mouth. Like broke pages. For books.

         Words go.

it's been since april that i've taken photographic recordings of the working it. i thought public humiliation in the form of once monthly pictures might push me into making sure i was staying on top of things. and here goes all this time without even a snap.

note to self. eat less. take pictures more.

. . .

I wonder what will happen to me? (Instead of getting a second job, can I just hide in the Sanctuary with a year's supply of wine and gin?)

fishing through old cds to listen to late nights. looking for the one i burned for you for the night i left you. for home. i spin an unmarked disc. shiny. and it breaks. goes. and i sink into the couch. pretty in pink sloppy skipping on the muted television. so many songs in, i close my eyes, drop shoulders. sigh. think. maybe i didn't realize how much i shouldn't have been kept up late at night. how i shouldn't have said those things that i said so much late at night. with so much spite. how much you really did know me. rock my head. kick shoes to carpet night time closing. trying not to think about it. the last time you told me you wanted me to spend the rest of my nights without you. until the songs said. this wasn't you. and me. leaving this all behind at all. it was one of those soundtracks of men who have loved me--so starkly honestly and crashing years later--when i was just a slight of hand. some great tragedy of knowing why he would find the love of his life, soon. and that it wouldn't be (a girl) me. and i think to myself, why didn't i put on what jess said to me one night, when she knew it would be just the right thing on a long weekend after a bottle of cheap red without much courage to letting go and just sliding in to bed.

i miss you guys in a bar in oxford that none of us ever spent any nights in together. because, right now, i need something to mend me.

i know.

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too early to be writing about wrenched limbs and severed heads?

potential title:

if you listen closely enough. you can hear it. the slow steady inhalation of the sound of the way i don't miss you so much. anymore. of how i've begun to loathe even the thought of you touching the very edges of the vast array of memories that have begun to take your place. how the sound of your voice the last time i heard your tinny miraculous packets broken and reconnected again through the lines of a phone make me want to blot out the world with fistfuls of bed sheets.

. . .
you're not even close.
. . .
you're not comin' in.

the wind howls. and i am sicker than ever. earlier i tried to climb into the sill. watch the trees wicked and wild in the storm dance. instead, i curled elbows to knees in the chair like a day-light-dog and cried to the sound of the cracks gulping air. if life were like a lime green sweater knitted by your grandmother than maybe there would be some comfort here. until you get home from work, i whimper low. long. into the texture of my skin. the strange freckled streets that run this head to toe.

[June 2, 2007, sometime between 7:00-8:30 pm CST]

even as a borderline sex addict, i'll readily admit that i didn't think reaching an orgasm through sex, without additional stimulation, was possible.

but yesterday, my boyfriend demonstrated that i was wrong.