The landing is worse than the fall.
You need to be careful, you need to be smart.
The time says its unholy but we say we are already in hell.
Nothing to lose besides our prayers.
Shut the hour, let me sleep.
"The pills will help with that," but they'll take away the motive.
This isn't working. But then again what is?
An excerpt from the short story
"No Cry for Love" by Mickey Lucas. Currently still in the works.
Sometimes I count backwards from 10 hoping with each passing number a month could go by so that when I reach February you still want me to die and we still both agree on something.
I keep your letters under the mattress like we used to, sometimes I feel brave enough to ask if you read the letters I sent you whenever you're tired but then I feel like that question would have to be followed by me asking you to send them back.
Even counting down from 5 would be good enough if it meant it was back to the part when you said you'd thought about it too.
Giving someone space by telling yourself to read their signals like an instruction manual and wait for the right away as if you've never given it to anyone else.
Still giving you space because I'm blind enough to not be able to tell when I should make a decision.
Maybe I could try to call you and count the rings before you answer.
I could wait for you to call me and save the candle from my 7th birthday for when I turn 70.
If I never texted you again I wouldn't have to to tell my future kids what serendipitous impatience feels like.
If you read this you're gonna realize it's about you as fast as I realize every girl I talk to still sends their ex messages at one in the morning on the edge of whiskey soaked lips.
In retrospect that's equally as fast as when I realize I build homes in muddy coloured eyes.
this is a melodramatic way to respond to no communication.
If you love someone
Do not ever let them go.
They will not come back.
Sometimes words lose their grandeur at the same time I drop dishes and bite my tongue and bruises form and I forget to say it back.
Sometimes I forget how small I am and really I am so small and remembering the way someone takes their coffee doesn't mean you care.
I have been myself in small intervals and with each time change a stranger with my skin crawls into it's place, coughing up 8 in the morning on Saturday's and crumpled sticky notes with ink smudges.
The fever rising fixation on having pen on paper pen on skin scribbling thoughts that are fastened to trains without brakes.
Pen on walls pen on something, something that'll hold it together longer than you can.
I've heard airports see more sincere kisses than wedding halls and hospitals hold more prayers than churches.
Maybe that's why I started buying plane tickets and stopped talking to God.
We missed the last train out of the city, I haven't been awake at night in a while. I haven't seen the darker parts of the city since you.
Nothing like the town so quiet all the kids must have already left for college and for jobs and to make their own babies in other quiet towns.
All the houses on our street have the same fathers so we wash our hands before meals and pray to our church for forgiveness because all the kids at school have been saying it's your fault that daddy left mommy.
I guess at that party we were all lonely
Strangers starting to seem okay to talk to,
you have a better chance of getting picked up in a van by the older boys at the end of your street. Making you drink bottled love while doing donuts on First.
I find it hard to say I am stronger than my brother's when I've spent a lot more time holding my breath than tying their shoes.
I've become my mother in more than just one way, we both know facing it and not having the strength to leave are two different things.
And I never meant to give the key to someone who would make copies but lose the original.
I guess at that party we were all thinking too much
That party only celebrated pity and I only pitied myself.
So it was a couch full of me and a room full of you.
Sometimes I forget how small I am and maybe sometimes I'm not as small as I thought.
Sometimes words lose their grandeur at the same time I build towers out of them.
Glass on tiles is from broken dishes is from walking home.
Trying to find where you live is picking up jagged pieces is wrapping the **** from the contact of the sharp corner colliding with your skin.
Dropping the plates feels like 8 PM feels like asking you to pass the salt.
Broken mugs are glued together like an antique puzzle,
fragment by fragment found one under the table,
found one I stepped on it.
Almost reversed except for the lines running around it,
the memory and experience also regret.
It still works if you're in need of a mug but always drips a little from a crack the glue couldn't fill.
Bought some new dishes fixed the kitchen sink fixed the glass on the tiles.
Found new tiles found new reasons to break some new dishes.
Forgot to wrap the **** it'll heal anyway
forgot to ask to pass the salt the plates dropped themselves.
Feels like 8 PM feels like 9 feels like 10.
Put the broken dishes away buy some more glue later.
First attempt at conceit poetry, written for a class assignment.
I thought about writing down all the ways you destroyed me but every time I tried I ended up writing my own name.
it's harder to leave the place that's killing you when all of the people you love are there and you think of ways to hold them but they just keep telling you to let go.
you keep forcing yourself to believe you'll be happier that way but really when will you be happy? when will the dark circles under your eyes go away?
when will you forgive yourself for not being there when your brother blew out his birthday candles? when you weren't there to pick up the pieces of your little sister's heart when it was destroyed for the first time, and all the times after that.
he'll say you were different but he drinks whiskey with her too and now your voice always cracks when you call someone else baby. you'll whisper into her hair "honey i'm never going anywhere" but rocks turn into sand and leaves turn into dust and you turn into a memory she won't have the pleasure of forgetting.
I'll count the bruises that cover my stomach and pick out the ones that look most like something you'd apologize for.
I'll convince myself that I only ran back to you because I was homesick. I don't think we fit each other no matter how much I want us to, you were the closest and I'm terrified of what's going to happen after I'm gone.
write down the names of all the lovers that left your hands cold and your eyes red and ask yourself why they're starting to look more like a picture frame and less like the person that never really said goodbye.
start drinking your coffee black because there's always a bitterness on your tongue anyways and scream their name at the walls because they will always listen to you.
we were alcoholics by 16 because the way they looked at you was too suicidal for a child to survive.
the school is so close to the hospital we're starting to feel comfortable with emergencies now.
this is an abandoned tape that keeps repeating itself and I am tired of waiting for someone to find it.