Submit your work, meet writers and drop the ads. Become a member
Well, we were the History club rejects,
focusing on the effects
of being us
instead of in a book.

Two college drop-outs,
calling in shout-outs
to our friends,
hoping that it affected
how we looked.

Our dads would sleep in,
and our moms were crying
until a quarter past noon --
and we knew
if we didn't start trying,
that would be us, soon.

We were the starving artists,
painting fruit we couldn't afford.
Hoping each brushstroke of an artichoke
would be fruitful to our wallet,
or at least strike a chord.

Two love-loss orphans,
dreaming of morphing
into something or someone else.
But they told us
to remove that fluff
from our head
and put it on the shelves.

We were the film club fanatics,
studying the dynamics
of how to be a pretend person.
We wanted to be
a Wes Anderson flick,
but we were never any thing
other than who we were
and that's what made us sick.

And I swear I miss the desperation:
I'm nostalgic for yesterday's conversations.
Special thanks to Noah Baumbach for the title and the line.
today I did not think about him
It is the first time in an entire year that I haven't
I don't realize this until tomorrow
but it is an accomplishment nonetheless

today I went to lunch, did laundry, drove to the gym
I didn't see his shadow in my rear view mirror
It is the first time during a commute where I don't feel the overwhelming urge to pull over
often the speed of the traffic mixed with the acceleration of my thoughts guides me to the side of the road
anxiety blowing loudly through the vents into my open mouth until I am too tired to focus-
today is the first time that didn't happen

last week I googled "therapists near me"
I settled on a woman with a nice smile and a specialty for trauma
This is the first time I find myself familiar with that word
almost comfortable like a distant family member I am just now recognizing
trauma is something with one definition but too many faces
for the past eight months I have been wearing his

on monday I spend an hour in the office of a stranger
she asks me why I'm here and I respond with I don't know but
my answer is as dishonest as my avoidance is expanding
she asks me how I am and I almost forget that I didn't come all this way to say fine
for a moment I almost forget that I am not.

I tell her about him without trying
I don't say his name
or the details I remember with more clarity each day that goes by
she says memories are really only what we remember each time we remember them
I think it's funny how I remember more every time I do
how sometimes laying in bed becomes catalyst to chest pain
I can still feel him kneeling on top of mine
pressing body into cracked ribs into spit on my neck
I can hear his humming of a song they play too often on the radio
there is no trigger warning for the reminders life has to offer
I find them everywhere without trying

she understands as much as I want her to
she says it's really about power
I say I know
she asks if I feel like I lost some kind of control
I say yes
I don't tell her that I have spent countless hours trying to find it
in bodies that aren't my own
digging nails into muscle and mattress trying to pull out some semblance of who I used to be
For too long I have covered up with a bandage
I am just now ripping it off for the first time
this pain is a sort of cleansing
I took three showers after he left but it is only today that I feel his remnants washed off my skin
I can't help but wonder if this is what Pinocchio felt the first time he was honest with his demons

today I did not think about him
yesterday I did not think about him
the day before I only thought about myself and pizza and myself again
there is very real possibility that my mind could figure out a way to bring back the unwanted
that tomorrow could be another way to remember
but today I didn't
I went to lunch, did laundry, drove to the gym
I made it home without incident
not perfect,
but it is an accomplishment
nonetheless
Tortured people tell themselves the past never happened.
They sit and reminisce about memories that they created.

Their hands are brown and worn down,
looking like a sibling of the ground that will eventually be a tomb for their bodies.

The teeth are fake and so are the smiles.
Hair falls off like rusty leaves brushed by a breeze, warning of the death of winter.
Limbs turn into string, ******* hang, and guts grow; like pregnant, stray cats.

Whenever they die, their houses will be eaten by their children, and not even a piece of gristle or a picture frame will be left.

The house will be nothing but a sun-dried ribcage:
a discarded postcard with the address marked out.

The children will sit and talk of their parents, repressing the abuse and the inability to meet expectations.

The children will work in sterile cubicles, thankful that their hands will not be stamped by calluses, yet knowing their fathers would not approve.

The children will open up the dust-blanketed boxes and stare at old family pictures, not able to recognize the people who smile and have perfect posture.

The children will lay in bed with their spouses and say, to no one in particular,
'Why was it never enough?
What did I do?

Was it me?'

The children will be tortured by these words,
by lives that weren't in technicolor,
by the paranoia of being tolerated instead of liked,
by the anxiety that a paid-off house
and nice car couldn't alleviate,
by themselves.

The children will retire and will have realized that they worked their entire lives just to enjoy ten years.
Their hair follicles will let go of strands and locks,
like a dandelion being stripped by the wind.

The enamel on their teeth will corrode and, before long, they will be thankful for the sensitivity of their teeth because the coldness of senior-citizen-discounted ice cream will be one of the few things they will be able to feel, let alone put a genuine smile on their face.

They will sit on their recliners, stare at their keyboard-kissed fingers and tell themselves the past never happened.

Because that's what tortured people do.
Ashland, Wisconsin
 Aug 2015 Tuesday Pixie
ZWS
I can feel Hawthorne's ghost over my shoulder while I walk through this gray cubicle maze
It's not my money, it's not my fault, when I'm stored in a cooler five floors above a city I want to raze
Left with my own devices to disappear in magician expectations
I'm corporate livings favorite cog
 Aug 2015 Tuesday Pixie
ZWS
I remember when we were kids
We used to pretend we were astronauts
I remember when we were kids we used to pretend
Now we can barely fit inside the orbits in our heads

Am I your lover, or am I just your cargo ship?
Am I your lover or am I just full of ****?
Am I your lover or am I just your cargo ship?

I'm calling back to mission control
I'm lost inside all the signals in your head
I never meant to hurt you
But I swear I'll make it right in the end
I said I swear I'll make it right if you love me till the end

I remember when I was a kid
We'd always play hide and seek
But I only ever hid
I was blushing in the brush
I was missing out on what I could have caught
So tell me am I your cargo ship?
Or am I just some lonely stupid astronaut?
Tell me am I your lover or am I just full of ****?
 Aug 2015 Tuesday Pixie
ZWS
All the happy songs are just making me sadder these days
Cause somewhere down inside of me
Something way too deep, and out of sight
Needs to be pulled out
And I'm getting a stronger feeling everyday
That I can't do that alone
So darling won't you throw me a bone
Didn't ever want it to come down to dog fetch

And all these feelings come to me quite random
Cause I'm not the pilot of my mind
But I can hear him and he's going down
Mayday I can hear him breaking sound

And I'm feeling like I'm gonna die someday,
Soon
And I'm feeling like a fool
When I see you walking by and I let you go
I don't even know who you are
But you are a euphemism for me
Because pessimism isn't just in my head

This isn't a drill
The bomb is real
And I've been tucking my head in between my knees
This isn't a drill, I need
You
 Aug 2015 Tuesday Pixie
ZWS
Girl
 Aug 2015 Tuesday Pixie
ZWS
Why do I lose sleep when I think of you
Makes me wonder what dreaming is
Because you're a happy thought behind my shaky complexion
Caffeine eyes that look like coffee stains
And the pain beneath them resides
I think you could change the tides
I couldn't tell you when I live my entire life in hindsight

Am I falling for you or is my body addicted to your pheromones
Is it the thought of clashing bones, with bones
Or is it the harp inside my mind that your voice harmonizes and hones
Am I falling for you or am I feeling alone

I'm a love **** and I'm stuck on your drugs
I've caught your bug, and the only vaccine is the thing inside you that pumps blood
I guess we'll see tomorrow, but the waiting is killing me
I'm ready to start thinking about the future
 Aug 2015 Tuesday Pixie
ZWS
Where'd you find those eyes, doll
All your needles, all your dyes
Why'd you make me fall
Where'd you learn all that voodoo juju

Impromptu impromptress who are you trying to impress
Cause there's a million guys who'd like to get under your dress
They forget you're the ventriloquist
And I'm SOL when you make everything yours
Like you always do, like you're so good at
I don't bat an eye, you're the inquisitress
And I'm ******* Johnny Defenseless in your inquiry imprisonment

I feel pins entering my skin everytime I'm around you
Acupuncture queen bee, your needles might get on my nerves
But most of the time they relieve me

And I'm here, and I'm waiting
And I feel a little blind when I can't see what I want to be seeing
I'm a little flawed, I struggle with just being
You're written in a different language, and while that might be deceiving
I hear you're a good read, and I'm getting a little greedy
 Aug 2015 Tuesday Pixie
ZWS
She only speaks whispers that the wind carries away
She's a shapeshifter in my company
Makes me feel more alone the more that I say
Your foothills, so empowered, rolling astray
The transcendence she leaves in your wake

Her tender lips speak false secrets
Through silt and clay they filter out
From the freckles of your face and the dimples of your vowels
You are my purpose, my therapist
In your presence I am sinless

Watching your walls crumble down
With swollen tear ducts
I am escaped
Your lies are safe with me
But your prison is not
 Aug 2015 Tuesday Pixie
ZWS
Built on a pyre a man of death
A man of belief, searing away from his flesh sheath
A sword of fire, a song of wind
His body is carried into the thin

Night is certain, the moon reminds us of this
Even during day the waves may be ruthless
But without a day's work a night would be fruitless

You are a child, you are bliss, and you know nothing like the rest of us
We can never know a thing for certain
We can only see shadows through a curtain
So believe away and know that you will be safe
We can see what we see but never know why
Nothing is true, nothing is a lie
But would it be stupid to say that we all live in the shadow of the same God?
Next page