you make me happy.

The endings of you and the beginnings of me and the ribbons and garters and cloth-space that bound us, with seams and threads of love and whispers.

ne suffit pas

Someday she will lose everyone, and her lies and her love will tangle her up into a ball of defeat. She will cradle her memories like a boy she once knew. And when she dances, there's no music, just her shoes tapping and her sleeves gathering, and her breath catching no one around.

She will lie on the floor, idle and disgraced. With the smoke trailing out of her mouth in a swirl of sinless guiltless disconcerting puffs; like her dreams. Heaving sighs and tired eyes, her face a mesh of her false truths, all of them spawning rabid on her skin. She will be a fraction of what she was and she will have no one.

Her feet light on the floor, creeping like a ghost in the halls of her home. Her things will haunt her, pictures and dressers and bathroom mirrors, ribbons and colors she wore when she was the solar system. She will stand there, in the middle of what was once comfort and realize that her safety had been stolen.

Someday she will lose everything, and her sanity and her fingers will tangle up into shards of glass. She will write in red, on her walls and on her skin. She will hang her money from noosed ties and tie her career to her bed posts. She will strangle her time with her nails, her knees digging into his guts as she presses down harder, begging him for more.

She will lose herself. In whiskey and bed sheets. And she will refuse to be found.

When you want to crawl into a hole because you feel like you bother everyone around you because you're hyper at the wrong times and deep when it's uncalled for. You know that mood when you just feel like telling everyone how awesome they are, how much you love them, how much you just want to be next to them and how thankful you are that you ever met them. I have those moods. Don't judge me.

behave.

She was always the kind of person who blended into walls well, really well, like cement well. She would disappear into a crowd like she was paid to do it; just because she was always did it so well, like she was invisible. And people who didn't know her, well, they never did; and the people that did, they simply didn't care. She was an ornament, a decoration, an additional head to the sea of breathing treading vibrating carcass of those existing. She was disposable.

In true spec-dust spirit, she refused to hold parties, refused to date, refused to recite in class. She refrained from doing anything that would get her noticed, that would allow people to see her, even just the husk that she was -- the statue of a husk that she was. No one ever knew her: the girl in a corner with a book in her face, her hands on her lap, her eyes to the floor. The girl in the corner with her shirt a size too big, with her bag slung too low, with her lips sealed shut. Nothing but the girl in the corner accumulating dust. 

Mostly, she was afraid. She was the kind of afraid that was afraid of everything.  She was afraid of becoming everything she saw, of everything she heard. She was afraid of turning into a statistic, a story, a cliche. So instead, she became nothing. She stayed a stagnant little drop of nothing.

Forever breathing, forever being, yet never living. You can be and never really be. And she was, but never truly was. She became the cliche, the story, the statistic. She became what she feared: a tragedy. 

Sheep

I’m sure you know what I’m talking about.

Like when you’re with someone and they take your hand and it’s alright, and everything’s fine, and then they graze their thumb over the back of your hand, or run it over your fingers, and something jumps in your stomach – it feels like you just failed a quiz, or got kicked off the team, or dropped a thousand feet off a cliff, or realized you’ve ruined something that could’ve been amazing; like blood rush with eyes closed and kisses in the dark. And you can feel the tingles down your legs, the static spreading through your body like poison. It’s so electric, how this wave starts from your stomach and spreads everywhere, taking with it this little spark that multiplies as it gets passed on, and you close your eyes and just let it marinate in your blood.

I want to be a corner stone.

You know how some people are good at sports or singing or making people laugh? Well, Cara was good at climbing stairs. She climbed stairs with such vigour, and such a quiet passion, it was invigorating just to watch her. No one noticed her though, because if they did, they’d put her in a tower. It was a good thing, then, that no one noticed. They all thought she was good for nothing; but that wasn’t true, because she was good at climbing stairs. Everyone was just too busy to notice.

One day, as she was climbing stairs, she met a boy. His name was Max. He liked her average brown hair and her average brown eyes and her slightly above average ability to hold a gaze, so he said hi. She replied. He asked her where she was going; she said she didn’t know, so they both started climbing down. It was quiet, nothing but the sound of their shoes against the concrete, and he liked the click of her heels, and the way she said nothing, so when they were at the end, he asked her out for coffee, and because she didn’t know what that was like, she said yes.

When they met for coffee, he wore his leather jacket, and she thought that was rad, so she let him hold her hand. They made pleasant conversation. He said he was a painter, and because she liked art, she giggled at his jokes even though she had never giggled before in her life. When they had finished their coffee, they stayed sitting in their booth talking even though it was getting late and the seats had tears in the leather, even though the table legs were uneven and the barista who was looking at them had a lazy eye.

When it was time to leave, he offered to walk her home, and because it was dark, she let him. Then he told her about his family, so at the door, she kissed him goodnight. He blushed but hid it. Her heart glowed and he knew – because she kissed him again. They both smiled as they laid in bed evening-thinking about coffee and torn leather seats. He swore he would paint her, and she swore she would kiss him again.

You know how some people are good at sewing or cooking or making up band names? Well, Max was good at watching. He watched everything, but no one cared, because if they did, he’d be on a talk show. It was an unfortunate thing that they didn’t; the world would be a better place if people knew what he thought. They all thought he was good for nothing – just a man with a brush; but that wasn’t true, because he was more than a brush. Everyone was just too ignorant to care.

One day, on his way down some stairs, he met a girl. Her name was Cara. She liked the canvases under his arm and the paint stains on his shirt, and the way the corners of his lips were curving upward, so she kept her gaze. He said hi. She said she didn’t know where she was going, so he invited her to walk down with him. It was quiet, nothing but the faint light in their eyes, and she liked the way he smiled at her from time to time, and the slant of his canvases when he propped them up against the way; so when he asked her out for coffee, she said yes.

When they met for coffee, she wore her Sunday dress, and he thought she looked pretty, so he held her hand. They exchanged words and sentences and thoughts, more importantly thoughts. She said she was a librarian, and he thought that was dull, so he made a lot of jokes, and smiled when she giggled because it sounded adorable. When they had finished their coffee, they stayed sitting in their booth talking even though it was getting dark outside and the exit sign flickered every six seconds, even though a part of the seat had sunken in, and the old ladies with the gold purses were staring at them.

When it was time to leave, she bit her lip and smiled, and because an old man started smiling, he walked her home. Then she talked to him about divorce and the economy, so at the door, he kissed her back. Her eyes lit up, but tried to hide it. His blood ran like water, and she knew – because he kissed back harder. They both sighed as they brushed their teeth, pre-sleep pondering about old people and flickering lights. She swore she would understand, and he swore he would make her immortal.