saturday

Lying on the ground. Cheek on the dirty carpet. Can see the dark under the bed.

His booted foot, his grunts as he labors from the exertion of slapping you so hard you fell.

His shoe, winding back, connecting with your stomach, the pain less than the shock and the feeling of disbelief, betrayal and hatred.

He’s sitting across from you next to your mother, laughing at a story your father is telling him. Everyone is eating a nice civilized meal, relieved you are going back to the lying disrespectful bastard. You choke down the bile with a genteel sip of mineral water.

He tells you that the vacation you’ve been planning with your family can’t happen.

This petty, small minded fucking fool.

And you know hate.

The cold, simmering kind that will twist your gut and give you cancer.

And you know you can kill him.

Watch him bleed to death and walk away without a qualm for the rest of your life because he deserves it.

And all you can do is plan how it’ll happen so you’ll finally get rid of him

late monday night

“I still hate you, but sometimes i rollover in bed thnkn your right next to me.” – 20/05/06 2:06 am

you’re eloquence leaves me speechless. is this what i fell so hard for?

*snort*

my head and my heart tell me different things too. i guess we’ll just have to deal with it

Saturday night

Dear S

I am sorry too.

I was an ass. You were the most special thing to happen to me. I’m sorry I screwed up. I should have listened to you more, I should have taken more care of you. I should have been the friend you expected me to be. I’m sorry. I’m sorry I’m the dumb guy I am. I’m sorry I didn’t defend you or care for you as I had promised.

But honestly – I tried to the best of my dumb ability. I’m sorry it wasn’t enough. It was really frustrating for me to see you so obviously unhappy because of me. It was frustrating that my house and my servants weren’t good enough. It was frustrating that no matter how hard I tried I couldn’t make you as happy as you obviously are with your own family – or as happy as you used to be before we were married.

I’m sorry I did this to you. I’m sorry for all the fights and the way I handled them – I could have managed them better. I’m sorry I still feel therapy will not help us – you and I are just too different, and as much as we hoped this would work, we must realize that it is time to let go of that fantasy because its just not practical. I will never give you what you want – love, attention and maturity that is beyond my years. I cannot give you the impeccably run house, the dignity of speech, the loving caring side of my personality anymore because the unpleasantness of the last month was too much – I told my parents too much. I belittled you and bad mouthed you to them and my friends and my work people because I couldn’t stand to know that you would do the same – and be more right than me. Its gone beyond my control now. My family will never accept you again – now can I. but please know this – I loved you. I love you a little still – which is why I want to torture you as much as possible and some how prolong all contact with you while trying to prove I hate you. You were always smarter and better than me. You came from a background and upbringing that I envy – that I wished to give to my children. I am proud to have been with you for the time that we were. I am sorry things turned out this way – but we’ll bounce back. In another ten years I’ll marry again – and make sure she’s young and dumb and poorer than me this time . you’ll probably get married within this year to someone older and richer and cooler – from the right school and the right ivy league and the right set of friends and will take you to all the places I couldn’t. I want you to know that I wanted to. I wanted you and I believed everything could be perfect despite it all. I’m so sorry its not.

With all my love and my heart,

Z

march of the penguins

never ever watch that documentary right after watching X-3.

there’s a young couple, the female tries to pass on the egg to the obviously callow and green male, who misses, and they watch in what can only be horror as the artic wind freezes it before thier eyes.

all the males are huddled together in one giant mass trying to shelter in the freezing artic wind, having to constantly move or die. they hunch in the cold, and morgan freeman tells you of how each of them take turns to be in the middle of the pack where it is the warmest. some – the older ones – don’t make it. the get caught in the isolated edges of the pack, drop from starvation and hunger, can no longer hang on to the eggs they are supposed to be keeping warm and they fall – covered in minutes in snow and ice as they fade away.
such is the life of men. starting off in stupidity and idiocy that costs lives, and then moving on to heroism and tragedy – noble to the last one of them.

afterglow

When did the emptiness get filled? When did those four days become tinged with gold?

Everything I write is full of you. How do I shut you out when my breath is bathed in longing? When will we finally forever ever after? How can I wait without breaking with desire or bursting into shimmering memories of yearning?

How did we become so trite?

*******

I’m wearing light purple, the color highlighting the paleness of my skin and bringing out the pink of my lips. I’m so heartbreakingly young and fragile, and so convinced I’m tough and mature. I look at you, in your white shirt and black pants and dark dark eyebrows slanting across your eyes, the rest of your face a blur in the burst of shining light. I patiently repeat the number three times, as your clumsy adolescent fingers fumble with the only telephone in the building.

*******

“I don’t have any lips!” I shriek, pulling them inward so I look like a toothless crone. “You have great lips” you say, with this air of helpless lack of comprehension guys get when women start talking like that. You lean real close like you want to devour me. I want to lean over and complete the thought, but we’re waiting for a restaurant table at a very busy mall.

*******

We are pieces of fictional stories, you and I.

I feel helpless when I see all these young women. All these girls all hopeful and idealistic with their restricted single sex lives of choking repression. All these little girls playing grownup, wearing their Fendi and YSL and who can’t pronounce glitter with the hard syllables of English and so soften it to gleeter, like the sweeter of long forgotten cousins and the meeyure and pleeyure of long forgotten mathematics teachers. Chalky dusters in add math class in the old red building, making my tongue itch to eat lovely white powder of sand even now as I type in memory.

*******

There is so much money is this green city of good roads and abundant water and electricity when poor skinny blackened world weary electricity deprived street smart heathen cousins from a neighboring town starve only an hour and a half away.

Only an hour and a half, and an impossible chasm of responsibilities and waiting and families and preparations. We have a lifetime together, you and I, and a lifetime to wait before we can share it.

*******

You fill up my empty spaces. You complete my blanks, you finish my thoughts, you up my moods, you down my mania, you’re better than chocolate, you’re better with chocolate, you stand all lean and mean in those jeans that hang adoringly off your butt just so and I feel like devouring you, like hugging you and spending my life with you worshiping your bottom and your back and your shoulders and your arms.

*******