TDM
17th April 2009, 04:01 PM
i.
when i look at you i am reminded of green, but please dont ask me to explain that one.
sometimes i sit and try to fathom the way that you think, what it is that ticks inside that head of yours, and if it is really as complicating as i imagine. i want to learn those secrets that are spinning around your skull -- itchy, hard-to-scratch words, refusing to wriggle their way out into your mouth (that's fluent in silence), where words are a foreign language.
you know, i crave words and i live for words and i bury them in our back yard, finding them when i have need and holding them until they twist and writhe out of my hands; i want restless words, and words under my bed, all covered in lint balls and dust bunnies, growing stale in the open air. i want to keep some in my bones (secretly), so they can hum a tune --
and sometimes, you can hear it, faintly, like bells in the distance, echoing through silence in the trees.
ii.
when you look at me i'm reminded of when i was wedged in between trees and a fist and a stone wall and the one who's meant to hold you dear and i'm reminded of being constricted -- spine pushed onto the floor, and crushed ribs and teeth aching for a little air to come and keep them company, and the trees that are calling to run away -- the wall a reminder of what could have been. but always, the fist looms over me. (dearest, still dearest and--)
as the rain falls down and i stand outside, letting it run rivers down my skin, soaking through and i beg that it never leaves because i'm home in moments like these -- and the storm, it whispers promises into my ears that it cannot keep and it fades to become its secret & only me.
iii.
and sometimes when i lie in bed at night, i find my mind wandering back of its own accord, as if it's grown feet and decided to hop back in time (and suddenly the room is filled with stale air that smells of newly printed leaflets and car exhaust) and before i know it i'm shaking and he's sitting next to me in the front seat and i'm dreaming and his foot's slammed down and we're going faster and faster and i cannot breathe and still we're flying on the floor, my guts a mile behind me, strewn through the seats, and i see the end of the road getting closer and closer (together we don't go anywhere but down) --
and i never get to see what happens next.
iv.
i remember how you hated the cold, and you'd believe that i radiated so much warmth that if i was sitting in the snow i'd melt it all to water, and we both laughed and you'd never laughed so hard in your life and i remember later that night as i was lying in bed, watching the world go by, that less than a week ago you'd packed up and ran away and i swear that part of you, just a tiny little part, never ever came back.
but to be honest, i suspect that it ran off with a part of me too.
v.
and so here i go, telling this all, and if you ever get sick of me then you could just ignore me (not unlike what you're doing now) and i'll become better at speaking silence with a twisted tongue that doesnt know what to do with itself anymore. but, if you want to hear more then you could always come and sit next to me and i'll tell you the story of a person who reminded me of green, who has an incomprehensible mind made up of secrets spinning inside a skull, made of itchy, hard-to-scratch words that refuse to wriggle their way out into his mouth, but please don't -- don't ask me to explain that one;
i don't think that i could.
when i look at you i am reminded of green, but please dont ask me to explain that one.
sometimes i sit and try to fathom the way that you think, what it is that ticks inside that head of yours, and if it is really as complicating as i imagine. i want to learn those secrets that are spinning around your skull -- itchy, hard-to-scratch words, refusing to wriggle their way out into your mouth (that's fluent in silence), where words are a foreign language.
you know, i crave words and i live for words and i bury them in our back yard, finding them when i have need and holding them until they twist and writhe out of my hands; i want restless words, and words under my bed, all covered in lint balls and dust bunnies, growing stale in the open air. i want to keep some in my bones (secretly), so they can hum a tune --
and sometimes, you can hear it, faintly, like bells in the distance, echoing through silence in the trees.
ii.
when you look at me i'm reminded of when i was wedged in between trees and a fist and a stone wall and the one who's meant to hold you dear and i'm reminded of being constricted -- spine pushed onto the floor, and crushed ribs and teeth aching for a little air to come and keep them company, and the trees that are calling to run away -- the wall a reminder of what could have been. but always, the fist looms over me. (dearest, still dearest and--)
as the rain falls down and i stand outside, letting it run rivers down my skin, soaking through and i beg that it never leaves because i'm home in moments like these -- and the storm, it whispers promises into my ears that it cannot keep and it fades to become its secret & only me.
iii.
and sometimes when i lie in bed at night, i find my mind wandering back of its own accord, as if it's grown feet and decided to hop back in time (and suddenly the room is filled with stale air that smells of newly printed leaflets and car exhaust) and before i know it i'm shaking and he's sitting next to me in the front seat and i'm dreaming and his foot's slammed down and we're going faster and faster and i cannot breathe and still we're flying on the floor, my guts a mile behind me, strewn through the seats, and i see the end of the road getting closer and closer (together we don't go anywhere but down) --
and i never get to see what happens next.
iv.
i remember how you hated the cold, and you'd believe that i radiated so much warmth that if i was sitting in the snow i'd melt it all to water, and we both laughed and you'd never laughed so hard in your life and i remember later that night as i was lying in bed, watching the world go by, that less than a week ago you'd packed up and ran away and i swear that part of you, just a tiny little part, never ever came back.
but to be honest, i suspect that it ran off with a part of me too.
v.
and so here i go, telling this all, and if you ever get sick of me then you could just ignore me (not unlike what you're doing now) and i'll become better at speaking silence with a twisted tongue that doesnt know what to do with itself anymore. but, if you want to hear more then you could always come and sit next to me and i'll tell you the story of a person who reminded me of green, who has an incomprehensible mind made up of secrets spinning inside a skull, made of itchy, hard-to-scratch words that refuse to wriggle their way out into his mouth, but please don't -- don't ask me to explain that one;
i don't think that i could.