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273 · Aug 11
relief
abbey Aug 11
i give you this. you smooth the paper between your fingers. i’m covered in ink and tears. 𝘸𝘩𝘢𝘵 𝘥𝘰𝘦𝘴 𝘪𝘵 𝘮𝘦𝘢𝘯? i ask. you sigh. you’re smarter than me. 𝘪𝘵 𝘥𝘰𝘦𝘴𝘯’𝘵 𝘮𝘦𝘢𝘯 𝘢𝘯𝘺𝘵𝘩𝘪𝘯𝘨, 𝘴𝘸𝘦𝘦𝘵𝘩𝘦𝘢𝘳𝘵. 𝘺𝘰𝘶’𝘳𝘦 𝘯𝘰𝘵 𝘨𝘰𝘥.

happiness is getting all over the bathroom floor. i’m not god.
abbey Aug 4
i look away, up. my eyes settle on the stars. pretty little secrets up there too, secrets between me and time. i get to see all the little heavenly bodies and time says, "between you and me, some of these stars have been gone for a long time," and i say, "thank you for saving them for me."
abbey Aug 9
how many times do i have to flip my pillow over before there’s no more of me left on it? how fast do i have to go to get enough momentum to fling myself to mars? i think about you all the time. i don’t know what that says about me. if i gifted you a wind chime made of the bones in my legs and my hands, if i tied them up all pretty, when it rang, would you hear me or the bones? when the chimes were deep, would you hear that summer when you thought you were doing me a favor or would you hear the bones? when the chimes were light and lilty, would you keep pretending you didn’t know what i was doing that school year or would you hear the bones? i wonder. i gift you nothing instead. what do you hear? i wait and it’s quiet. no boney wind chimes. i haven’t even driven you home. i flip the pillows on your side of the bed but it doesn’t change anything because you never touch them. there are three cold sides to your two-sided pillow. i don’t know how you manage things like that. teach me your ways. you’re magical. you sleep on the couch. i can’t imagine why.

i can’t stand to sit here anymore. maybe we could go to church or something. that could be fun. knowing you, you’d hear god and he’d tell you to drive a stake through my heart. knowing you, you’d think about it. maybe we could go to the lake and you could think about drowning me. maybe i’d thinking about drowning me too so you didn’t feel so bad. i don’t know what that says about me. i’ve got to grind all my insides up to fit in my bed. i have to cut seven toes off just to fit in the door. and then i walk over the cheap rugs you got from home goods with my only three toes and i think about all the memories we’ve got here. peeling leather off my skin and turning all the lights on. watching you chain smoke in the driveway through the blinds so i could time my panic attacks just right. i got so good at saying sorry and so bad at paying attention to what for. i come back for nice pairs of socks but i leave literal parts of my body and i don’t know what that says about me. i’m trying not to think about it. i know you almost as well as you know the back of my head.

i didn’t know this was going to be about home before i started writing. another thing — i’ve never stepped foot in the attic and i hope the roof collapses. i hope the shutters fall off the windows and mangle all your flowers. i hope it all burns up someday. and i hope the people under the floorboards you told me about go up with it. what does that say about me? maybe that i’m a coward or that you’re terrifying. maybe that we’re both horribly selfish. maybe that i’m lonely. (or that i’ve only ever really wanted two things — to die and to be loved.) maybe that i’m traumatized. that you are too. maybe that we’re human. none of this means we’re ever going to forgive each other. none of this matters at all. especially not now, after all the damage i’ve done with this one. our house burned down. there are dead bodies in the crawl space. where are we going to live?
abbey Aug 3
she's drawing constellations (brand new ones, all ours) all across my neck and my jaw and my shoulders, little sparkling trails of stars left in the wake of her fingers. she's the kind of person that could do that. the kind of person that could put new stars in the sky -- give them names, give them stories. maybe she's tracing us, like this, wound into one another. maybe she'd call it "the collapse of the vacuum" or "divine intervention." the prettiest ends for everything.
44 · Aug 5
how sad. anyway,
abbey Aug 5
it’s just so pretty. so deep. brains splattered on canvases, beating hearts slinging blood all over the page. so smart, how you do that — kind of weird, but cool, nonetheless. how can you even think like that? why can’t i? god, it’s the suicidal ideation, isn’t it? sign me up. it’s just so pretty, you sad little thing. “oh, i heard he’s taking pills now. i mean, i’m happy for him, but what about all that extra paint?” could you write a list for me? yes, a timeline of every terrible thing that’s happened to you. i just want to understand better. what was the first birthday party you remember? oh, that’s so cute! and how many times did your mom try to **** herself before she finally got there? lovely. is this one all red because of you-know-why?

subsequently, gun-shot wounds in green houses. final breaths caught by the ***** they’re being drowned in. (oh, how sad. disappointed but not surprised, am i right? anyway, brunch. saturday. of course you can bring him along!)

what i mean to say is, stars fall from the sky and we sing a little song and wish on them.
33 · Aug 3
really,
abbey Aug 3
you want to wake up and you want to do your makeup because you want to look pretty. and then you pick up buddhism because you want to be more spiritual. and you want to get a new window. and you want to make money and get some school clothes. and you want to kiss pretty girls in the backs of places and you want to love them really, really hard for a few hours, but that's not anything you want to share with anyone. maybe you want to get into substance abuse. maybe you want to sweep it under the rug under the guise of being young. you want to be a writer. you want to be interesting. you want to be cool enough to die like sylvia plath and hunter thompson and ernest hemingway. and you want people to say "well. i mean, yeah. kind of saw that coming," because no one has to take responsibility for you if you were never a real person in the first place, and how much easier would that be for every one? i'll tell you — a lot ******* easier. and you want to be easy. easy to love easy to hate easy to stomach easy easy easy. you want all of these things and you want to be magical. fleeting. nameless and well-known. or maybe you don't. because, really, you just want to be able to fall asleep tonight. and that's it.
abbey 6d
1.
you’re here and you’re beautiful and you’re everything i ever wanted. magic. i say that to you with stars in my eyes. fake ones. glow in the dark ones with sticky peel off paper on the backs. i’m sorry. i didn’t mean it. i thought saying it would make you happy. i thought saying it would make it true.

2.
we’re standing on a bridge over an interstate. we are holding hands and we are in love with each other’s hands. wait. i’m not understanding — sorry. i never claimed to be a reliable narrator. what’s really happening: you’re trying to force me over the edge, i’ve got metal in my back. i’m in love with your hands, they are doing god’s work.

3.
if i made a list about all the good things about you, there would would be one bullet. it would be right between my eyes and it would say, “the way you don’t mind telling me i’m pretty.” i’m sorry, again. what a terrible thing to say.  i am definitely using you.

4.
we both actually died in the end. we both fell over the edge. we landed on separate cars. your car was better than mine, it was yellow and old. i was jealous. i didn’t want people to like your mangled body more than mine, laid out on a nicer car.
abbey Sep 18
be violent. be a blue room. be a bigger blue room. be something like a supernova or a black hole. i’m sorry, i’ll give you a break. pull to the shoulder and have a rest. there’s all the time in the world, except we’re nearing the end. the end of what? the end of this cup of coffee, the end of this afternoon, the end of the thick rope that dragged us this far. there’s all the time in the world. of course there is, we know this. but we’re nearing the end. twenty minutes until the end. just enough time for a rest on the ugliest road we’ve ever seen, and just enough time to stitch it all together afterward. we have knots to tie, ripples in reality to iron out, bread to pull out of the oven, bones to dig up and bodies to bury. we’re twenty minutes to the end and we have a laundry list of loose ends. be voilent, get it done. be a blue room, get it done. burn the room with everyone inside, get it done. we have all the time in the world which apparently isn’t very much. someone used half of it dying to be kissed, and someone else used the other half being scared of the dark. we won’t let them get away with this. we’ll burn them first, even if they end up being you and i — siamese twins like atom bombs. pull to the shoulder, you need your energy. pull to the shoulder, it’s as much an end as anything else is.
15 · Sep 16
straw hearts
abbey Sep 16
we are standing in an open field. there are twenty straw men in a line going down the edge. you’re terrified because you don’t know who sent them. i’m trying to tell you that not everything is about us, trying to get you back in the car. we didn’t have to pull over, i say. i saw a no-trespassing sign, i say. you’re not listening. your fear is turning to anger. you’re threatening them. telling them you know high-level military interrogation techniques. they’re not answering. it’s a one-sided stand-off. you’ve got guns pointed at twenty  painted-on faces. i’m kicking around pieces of dried corn, asking you to just go back to the car. the straw men are smiling, their lips are stitched shut. you think they’re mocking you but they don’t have anything to do with us. you’re still screaming. something behind us snaps, i spin around. a buzzard landed twenty feet back and broke some rotten stem. by the time i turn back around there are eight straw hearts on the ground, and counting, with eight disheveled straw bodies to match. you’re taking no prisoners, not getting any answers. a massacre. the straw men at the end of the line are fidgeting. one of them is crying. i’m shouting. straw hearts everywhere, bleeding into the dead corn, watering it. “they are just for the crows! they are just for the crows!” i can’t yell loud enough. fifteen straw hearts. “only scarecrows! they’re innocent!” eighteen. nineteen. the last scarecrow closes his eyes. twenty straw hearts, a mangled row. you’re red handed. never any consequences. you take my hand and suddenly i’m complicit. but all that happens next is we get back in the car and we drive away.

— The End —