There's Nothing Here But Me Now

Welcome to the a wasteland of words I haven't gotten around to doing anything with.

[love-personal]

[sinisterdomain]

[lsleofskye]

Jhinu Danda

[l1ttlefox-blog]

What do you do when you know you're going to die young?

[l1ttlefox-blog]

I like the way you smile Up from one end and stretching a mile Until those pretty white teeth gleam. You're grin is so mean And your smile so clean And I love it so very much. Your eyes they crinkle And those irises twinkle When you're having a good time. How I wish you were mine When you smile. 7/24/2015

[l1ttlefox-blog]

The Oar

Sometimes I dream of water. Of me floating belly up while the cool pools around me. It’s a lake I have been to before. Smoky memories of women giggling and bathing in the cool blue dusk of a summer night, Coors Light cans illuminated by the rising moon- a houseboat docked not far away but far enough for a quiet, private ritual of dove soap and my mothers hands in my hair. I must have been barely nine when I was last there in reality. Earlier that day nearly having drowned because my one man paddle raft tipped over in my youthful vigor and I was too desperate not to lose my oar that I nearly lost my breath. I remember floating tendrils of dead plants underneath the water looking like a child’s hand reaching out to me. It was so lifelike it startled me into letting go of my oar- the sudden loss of weight projecting me back up into the bright blue of the summer day and back into oxygen my lungs could break down. My uncle pulling my back into the boat and my mothers fingernails cutting into my shoulders and telling me that that if something was weighing me down to, for Godsake girl, LET IT GO. To this day I have trouble with that advice. To this day I find myself sinking further down until something startles me into letting go of the weight I didn’t realize I had such an iron grip on.

It’s always obvious once I unclench my fingers but I never seem to see it until the burden has been lifted. I choke on my insecurities until my insecurities are the ones to give up. The world cannot beat me because I inevitably beat the world up first.

I have a constant terror that masks itself as bravery. I speak my mind with an ever growing conviction that my words will be misconstrued- that I will be misconstrued- or even worse. Seen through. That someone will see past what I am on the cool dusky blue surface and into what’s is lurking underneath. They aren’t bad, my demons. I hold little to no ill will although I find myself hissing insults into my mirror sometimes to my own image and the images I envision of others. Telling my imaginary foes what I really think of them- whoever they are in that moment. I don’t really know my demons but I know I don’t like them. They leave a shadowy blankness in their wake, choking me worse than the desperation of not letting go of that oar, not damaging someone else’s property, of not damaging someone else. They leave a deep fear that somehow I am less important.

I long to be back in that open water again with those women and fear deeply of being tossed back into the stillness of what lies beneath the surface. I yearn for those fingers washing my hair and tremble at the ones reaching up from the bottom. How do you know when to let go? When to stop fighting the oar and allow yourself to float back into the daylight?

[l1ttlefox-blog]

Going, going, gone

Don't think I'm leaving you. I'm not leaving exactly. Well, I'm not leaving you exactly. Yes, I am moving and yes, you are staying behind. But we aren't so linearly aligned like that you see. Your path is straight and your goals aren't shrouded by the shrubbery and I'm so far into the woods, the moss is on all sides of the tree and north is nowhere to be found. I'm not leaving really. I'm moving in. I'm moving into a small apartment in a different city with a garden on the patio and a tree that swoops down over my deck. I'm leaving to live in a room with a bed big enough for me and my blankets and a kitchen with chili pepper lights. I'm whisking myself away from this house with too many ghosts. I'll mourn with my family and speak at the wake but I will not wait for you. I'm not relying on you or anyone else to get me where I'm going. I'm renting a truck and shoving my bookcases and dragging my boxes and tossing out my demons as I go. And if you want the seat next to mine, I'll wipe your brow and kiss your cheek and we'll wave our demons off together. However risks aren't in your nature and this city belongs to my dead. So here I go not quite leaving you but leaving nonetheless. 01/2015

[l1ttlefox-blog]

she laughs without fear, he cooks runny eggs

"Aren’t you afraid?" He murmured into her smoky hair. She turned, the strands tangling against the scruff of his chin.

"Of what?" She replied, the crook of her mouth curling sleepily.

"Anything. Aren’t you afraid of anything?"

She laughed.

"No."

——

"Tsunamis, maybe." She brought up later. He paused at the stove, blinking down at the half cooked eggs he had been absently moving around the pan. It was nearly noon on a Sunday but in weekend terms that was barely seven on a Monday. His neighborhood was still asleep, the drug dealers and meth heads still slumbered on. Light poured in through his cracked kitchen window, the dime store curtains, lacy and torn, did little to hide the sunshine.

"What?" He was lost at the sudden remark.

"I’m kind of afraid of tsunamis." She propped her chin in the palm of her hand. Her dark red nails curling over her sharp chin and her olive skin contrasting against the pale white of his plastic kitchen tables. She fiddled with the stolen black ashtray next to her wondering if she could light up the half smoked cigarette from last night. They often smoked in the cool dark after hours but it was usually if they were tinged with enough whiskey to erase concerns of things like landlords and no smoking rules. She rolled the cigarette against the table absently. The plastic chair across from her groaned in protested as he slid her plate towards her and sat down with his own.

"Tsunamis." He repeated bringing his fork to his mouth. The eggs were runny.

"Yeah I mean, giant crashing waves? Being unable to run away fast enough? The idea of water, which you need to survive, being the very thing trying to kill you? Poetic but uncomfortable."

Poetic but uncomfortable. That was her in a nutshell. She lived her life in grand stories, painted nails fluttering about in each pretty detail. He had a suspicion she didn’t particularly care for herself. He had caught her before leaning against the bathroom sink staring at herself in distain. He wasn’t sure was she saw that she didn’t like for she was never one for self deprecating talks. She could laugh at herself but it never seemed honest like the pieces of her she disliked were too close to ever actually mention even in jest.

[l1ttlefox-blog]

i move best when i move new

I have found myself best at change. I am most me when everything surrounding me is a vortex. I move best when I move new. When I'm on that precipice and everything hums and buzzes With promise and possibility. There's nothing that makes me feel as trapped As the sameness of a sunny day or the constant rain. I don't like the same doorway after awhile And no matter how beautiful and blue your sky was at first It is dull and sepia now. I don't appreciate constants. Blame my upbringing if you will. I always had a lunch packed and a kiss from my mother. I always had a firm fatherly grasp on my shoulder. And with that kiss and that grasp I have succeeded in life And now I must run. For there is nothing more terrifying Than flinging yourself into the vortex of change, And nothing as satisfactory as brilliance in the face of fear And I am as terrified as I am brilliant. There's nothing like throwing your hands up in the air In vengeful surrender. I am best at my lowest. When I have nothing but my shoulder to look over And regret settles heavy for all the times I didn't run. Because the same is safe. And safety is worse than fear. At least in the swirling vicissitude there is a chance For blinding happiness. So do you take that sepia sky And the never ending sameness, Or do you run?