excerpt from something.

She stands in the doorway, amongst the rubble left by the rush of hipsters avoiding the cops. Dropping a deuce in the bathroom, I had avoided the sirens and masses of people leaving. The house is empty and smells like swiped V-cards and piss. I help myself to a jello shot and don't even notice her until I hear a kind of grunt.

I steal a second one and look up at her. She's about twice as drunk as I am. Deerhunter hat, white tank top I can see her nipples in, blue panties, bear claw slippers. She's drinking four dollar wine from the bottle. She looks at me. I look at her. We stare at each other for what's gotta be five solid minutes before she speaks.

"Party's over," she says.

"Guess so," I say. Silence.

"You know you have to leave, right?" she says, taking another gulp.

I take another jello shot.

"Look, I don't give a fuck if you go home or not. Hell, I don't care if you crash here. But my roommate is gonna raise hell if she finds some floater on the floor tomorrow," she says in one breath.

Silence.

"'Kay," I say, taking another shot for good measure. I try to go for the front door. She holds her hand up.

"Back door. What are you, a freshman?" she says, pointing.

I salute her and go into the night.

what happened was

yesterday you cut me out of your life

and I know that I deserved it, gave or took it like the statue I am
the impression of you gripping my soft spots captured for
fanny-packed tourists to gawk at before the call of an empty stomach

as I walked the streets, hungry and alone (not uncommon)
I came across the cracks in the sidewalk blooming weeds like
they were jewels -- I picked up the last wishflower of the summer

though highline and into the village I carried it with me

feeling asphalt seep through my sandals

and that's when I knew

your hands haven't learned much yet.

that crippling sensation that comes with knowing that you are wrong in every sense of the word

I can't breathe without the thought of failing creeping into my bones

and on and on I go, despite this wrongness

isn't it good to be alive, she said, and I agreed

king and queen seat.

the acute hurt of not knowing suffocates

because I always need to know, need the clench of control

baby boys in big boy clothes, running around, followed clouds of smoke and punctured with septum rings ill suited for their ski slope noses

you're all bones and I worry about you only sometimes, peripheral exclusive, only circumstantial thinking really

it reminds me of when my mother tried to kill herself when I was nine

and they locked her up with women who called me rosemary and touched my hair

old man swore in six languages but could not negotiate day and night

I never knew what motivated her to hate herself so, when she was everything I wanted to be

bone thin, ill and still graceful, hollow cheeks and wise eyes so tired of the world, like I was, too young for it

let's throw the pity party, hmm, dunce caps and creamsicle cocktails, the closest thing to dairy I'll touch nowadays

yes, I became a vegan to lose weight and it worked, didn't it? am I beautiful now, mother, father, classmates who skirted around my prom invitations?

it's a foolish thing to dwell when I have grown past the confines of my clay pot, tropical and unruly

mother with her obvious femaleness, father with his sturdy maleness, bore a child somewhere in between

I'm sure every woman feels the echo and/or imprint of maya angelou in ears and on skin, even if they've grown tired of a preacher to the choir

yes, yes, you are a woman, as are they, though I'm not sure I will ever know what that feels like

what about audre lorde I wonder, this androgynous creature of intimate words referencing the curves of others similar to herself, years ahead of her time

and I hope you can understand why I worry about you and your idle thoughts as you ride your bike past my house at three in the morning

you are a vast unknown, the type that frightens and intrigues, a comfort somehow

a man in too plain clothes and not a mark or distinguishing alteration on his body

you were never bones, and I like that. I like it. I don't have to worry, or feel the weight of my own empathy on my back like the pressure to be a woman.

in some ways, it's a surprise

that I've grown accustomed to your rhythm, your edge
and I feel the thrum of my jealousy at the sight of draped bodies
how and what I want don't always intersect
this is no exception, when your smile makes me crazy
but I'm hesitant to even turn your way

am I crazy? likely.

send you my love on a wire.

what do you want from me?
it isn't as though this shit ends.
we are circular and ultimately directionless as we try to fathom a future without hatred
but it's always there
it's always going to be there
and you can't keep denying it, or we'll get nothing accomplished
as tides wash in
and fears wash out, leaving indifferent residue.

novel excerpt.

"Sometimes I want to punch him, but sometimes I want to kiss him too, and the kissing outweighs the punching in the end, you know?" Ingrid sighed.

"Yeah," Christopher said, even though he didn't.

"It was absurd how angry I was -- I didn't even think I was capable of it," she went on, laughing lightly.  "He just took off, vanished, you know?  I didn't know he was working for the Administration until it was too late to talk him out of it.  And I couldn't stop him, because I'm just a halfie and he's a fucking deerkint, for god's sake, do you know how powerful they are?  Ugh, it was terrible.  And I put poor Tallulah through such torture because all I did was roll up the windows and talk about how much I hated everything and how much I wasn't going to cry because fuck crying.  She kept on making all these pitiful noises, so one day I just gave her a break and pulled over on the side of the road and screamed."

"Yelling helps," Christopher agreed.  He missed the woods around his house for that reason.

"My life was getting worse by the day.  I mean, my fiance abandoned me.  My mother was -- is -- dying from something awful and unknown and the relatives that were supposed to help me are either dead or of no service.  And here I was, just screaming in a field more because of the guy than my own mother, who went through hell from the magic community because she loves my dad... sometimes I don't even feel like a Foundra."

Christopher hesitated before putting a hand on her arm.  "You're really strong for going through all that," he started, then everything tumbled out.  "You're one of the more brave people I've met, and you have so many good qualities, so put away the bat.  No one can be everything at once.  We all have limits before we snap.  Sometimes, it's good to snap." 

Ingrid stared at him for a moment before her face broke into a grin.  "You're a great kid, Chrissy," she said, ruffling his hair.

"Thanks, ma," he replied.  So he was a kid now.  Great.

"No, you know what I mean," Ingrid insisted.  He didn't.  "You're gonna make someone really happy one day, babe.  I just know it."  

A moment passed, a fraction of time in which something significant should have happened.  Had his life been a film, he would have brushed the stray bit of hair from her face and tucked it behind her ear.  She would have blinked at him with those dark, endless eyes of hers, whispering something to herself in that tongue that she would have to teach him later.  They would lean in at once, two sets of eyes fluttering shut as two sets of lips met in an instant of accord.  His hand would rest on her cheek.  Her hand would settle on his knee.  Music would swell in the background, the theme of the film or some soaring indie epic -- or maybe there would be the silence that happened when everything else in the world went still but them in that moment.  But his life was not a film.  There was no director, no script, and no chance to do it over as she got up and brushed any dirt and debris off her rear.

"I'm going to check on him -- I'll see you later, yeah?" she said, smiling in that way that made his heart stutter, if that were even possible.

"Yeah, see you," was all that he could come up with.  She paused before giving a little wave and turning around. 

Christopher bit his tightened fist to keep from crying out in frustration.  The Darbys of the world once again got the upper hand, and all he could do was watch as she walked away.

whoa oh, I want some more.

my heart swells in so many places it hurts to breathe sometimes

but I remember in certain sweaters I look the best and all is well in a land of snow.

I didn't get what I wanted, and it's fine, oh it's fine.

maybe some other time.

story morning glory.

"Don't go chasing dreams, kid," he said to me, as my skin stuck to his leather seats.

When all the smart kids moved north for the winter, all the cokeheads stayed in Hollywood. It was a good night, I guess. I wore the same jeans over and over again, rough against my skin, and I fell into quarter beats as the men on city streets asked me pointless questions.

And will you ever grow old? I don't know.

And will you ride headlong into the desert sky? I don't know.

And will you ever tell us his name, the one you write about in every song? That's no for sure.

It all rested in ragtag blues. They stitched wings into breakable girls as women trailed me like clockwork. Tick, tock, they all fell in love but no one really meant it. It was all for that last bit of white before lights out.

"But they look so good on me," I said to him, as his glance gave me the up-down in my peripherals.

Silver was my favorite non-color to wear. It made me look more serious than the articles painted -- this painted woman-child with bangles for common sense. I giggled and denied marriage, noting tasteful shoes and dismissing showboats in polyester. I was silver like the moon, a supporting hue in the cast of purist to wise. And he was merely charcoal grey, almost there but never quite good enough.

Different women want to be me but few can compare.

Different men want to be me but few can compare.

I am neither, I am both, but who is there to compare?

Present past spoken in future tense, but what else do I know if I'm not drunk with some sort of expensive alcohol someone else bought me? I asked myself these convoluted questions night after night, longing for the chafe of stubble on my cheeks and met with silky smooth aftershave from the baby boys who ran around in big tough guy clothes. Yeah, real tough guy now.

"Suspicion got me this scar," you said, pointing at your jaw, the place that made me ache something awful, for that mouth of yours between my legs doing something, for fuck's sake.

We drove along and alone, the throb of want everlasting as you dragged out my torture with seeming bliss, just with a turn and a smile every once in a while.  and even when desert became ice, when texas became rome, when all the words melted in my pocket with the accuracy of throwing darts, I knew somehow this would be the only time in my life that I would be truly happy.  

something more.

three years and I'm back to where I was

terminal port and sloppy sustenance

who ever knew my fingers would glide against worn keys

it's been so long since I've been myself.

it shows, and it shows, and it shows

isn't it funny how I waste my time searching for something more?

and rediscovering my older tricks haven't worked and there's no cure

trying so hard to bypass time, ignoring the fact that I must die

maybe there's nothing left for me to find

unfocused.

we're in this place now, where i can't compartmentalize in the way that i used to.
you were the unrequited duo, one spelling out her longings while the other made cryptic allusions.  and i bought it.  we all buy it, you know, or at least i hope the both of you know.  i don't know if i ever will.  
now she wants people and specific people and forgive me my dear i'm sure you'll understand but that's really really difficult for me to wrap my head around.  am i coming in clear?

and it's not selfishness.  after her, i can't like another girl again.  it hurts too fucking much.  it's just bizarre.  give me time, i guess.  just time enough to think it over.  i cried that night for the letting go of everything i'd been holding onto.  it was great.  but now i'm stuck in the ether and what the fuck is it going to bring?  i don't know and that terrifies me.

and you go about.

you live your life. I live mine.

Yet somehow there's still this gaping hole feeling in my gut

and I find it hard to breathe without tears.

can't a girl joke back, however wrong the term is?

you really do take things seriously, the density of weighted words.

I don't know what to do with you.

I don't know what to do with myself on days like this.

all I really want is to run and scream until I spit blood.

because that's all I am, all the time, just bursting with feelings

so many things to say and so much emotion to spare.

if you want some, you can have it.  open here, take as you need, just leave enough so I can tell my mother I love her and mean it.  

itching fingers.

I want to write.
I want to write.
but something always holds me back
perhaps I don't have the curve of your neck memorized perfectly...

it's always something like that.

I need my obsession for my creation. I need the knowledge I really shouldn't have.isn't it funny how we have all these tools at our disposal? and we feel an expansion of lungs.

I don't need love.  It's a waste of my time.
But I'm jealous of those who can throw down and hook up
Not waste their time daydreaming of dogs and houses and tree lined streets.

Antithesis.  Clothes slipped on just to be tossed off.
Too sheer, doesn't cling to the figure enough
Yet you are who you are and I am jealous of this.

I am more lines than I ever knew possible, and at the time I could never want them.

"I love you and everything is beautiful."

[It hasn't been this bad since her.]

scruff. it's funny how much I like it.
you should shave, really, because it's homely
but come to think of it, it's so... you
I could wrestle with self doubt and say hello, how are you, how was your weekend
but my tongue forever exists in knots
and I feel the dryness in my throat before I can even get the words out
so I stop. because you're perfect. and I can't deny that.

okay, so no one is perfect. I lied in that respect.
but I'm torn between assumptions and resignations.
would you be interested? do you stare at younger men with longing?
it gets me hot under the collar and cold in my stomach, jealous and pleased.
I always get like this, reduced to this, because of my self doubt.
and you are none the wiser, self regarded oblivion as I hang on your every mistake

bitch, show me your body.

I still feel your face, against hands that have
never graced you. you burn
patterns in my cheeks, my twisted spine and
shirt collar white, contrasted with black
and I don't know you. and I don't know
you, with shadow tickling my palms and
feeling smoke fill my lungs, imaginary
seeing your static and unkempt, stupid stupid hair
(jesus christ do you ever wash it but that's cute)
(seriousness in clover and dust smoke, bicycles and
bags from other bags, from jeans frayed and torn with
same shirts with holes but I've grown to smile)

asides aside, you were never one to question but
how would I know that I just
assume, assume and remove myself from situations
imaginary, brutal, intensity soft and slow like piano keys
against my callused fingers, out of practice out of line
barre chords and nylon instead, uselessness
and kitsch, I'm eclipsing, something I despised but
would you like that. you wouldn't I guess, you
wouldn't. I guess. I don't know you. I don't
know you. imaginary, acerbic with shining dark
eyes, turbulent ocean and icy sky clash for fleeting moments
you ask me to repeat things and I comply, wanting you to
be satisfied with stripes. jeans with frays and tears, same
shirts, black with white.

blank.

filling in spaces, but of course.

i want.

something to make sense.

to not feel tension gripping at my throat, squeezing and slipping, kneading me.

to say hello.

to not feel like a fool, like I'm fat, like I don't deserve anything.

red.

I study your worry lines in peripherals
and try not to think about the times I've wanted your hands on me.
I feel as though it's been years, years and years
yet seconds since you last looked into my eyes.
jumping to conclusions just so you can find my glance.

our fingertips touched and there were no sparks
no quickened heartbeats, just a pressure from both ends.
it wasn't just me. I know it wasn't just me.

I feel so raw whenever you move the slightest inch
yet I'm not sure if I want to know you
because I understand I'll just be disappointed.

sinking feeling.

but no, no it's not that

i'm just lonely is all

and that's okay.

honestly, I'm only broken wings and cockle shells.

what I miss.

my ability to observe and act.

my tact and sense of timing.

a two step toward you.

goals.

not wanting anyone this bad.

where did all the chastity go?