partitions of daylight

Just my ramblings, nothing more.

[partitionsofdaylight]

From one to another.

Going from someone's to no one's is a little bit like going from someone to no one.

Who you are and who you were, what you do and how you act. A quiet metamorphosis, subtle at best.

But that's not how it feels.

It feels like you split me like a migraine.

It feels like you washed me over with hand sanitizer, added water, and lapped it up.

Like if I was a fish, you would drink me.

But you know how else it feels?

It feels like I can stand on my own. These two feet to carry me out from underneath these tragic seats. From which to look forward and then beyond. Onwards to a comedy?

[partitionsofdaylight]

Sick.

This god damn ticking won’t ever stop— Like a palpitating clock— This manmade sound drowns me now And I can’t see the top.

The shakes are now inevitable. I try to take the time To make as much noise as you do But it’s just a selfish mime.

I clench my teeth and scream and scream, You take it all and it's never enough. I let you bleed me and I can’t take it.

Do you want to hear the arrogant truth? This ghost that takes a hold of me Is nothing but a prop.

[partitionsofdaylight]

And I'm fucking mad about it, too.

You gave me cancer.  

A silent, deadly cancer that I can never talk about for fear of other people seeing me. A putrid cancer that grows and grows until it takes my body whole and tramples me. My fucking cancer that chokes me at night and kills me, too.

Now, don't pretend it's not exactly that because look, I'm losing my hair and my self respect and my flair.  

Oh and a few other things that rhyme with fucking cancer.

[partitionsofdaylight]

I lied, you weren't actually a mistake.

7 words I never want to hear.

[partitionsofdaylight]

Wish Fish

Sometimes I feel like my heart will stop,  like the bones in my chest can't hold themselves up. Like I don't know what I'm doing or what I'm here for. I used to think there was more.

But there's nothing left in me but bones, meat, and electricity and the thing is, rubber china doesn't have a current.   And meat can be lean, or it can be gristle.   And electricity is just an impulse.

So I could have a statue made of me, cast in bronze for all to see. I can leave my footprints in the sand.   But if I had my chance to claim fame,  none of it would matter.

You see,

Sometimes I wish that my heart would stop, that the veins in my head all would just pop.   That I could take what I wanted without being selfish.   I guess we can't all get what we wish.  

[partitionsofdaylight]

Black spaces (revised).

Black space between my fingers open and close as my fists do.   But Sometimes they don't.

Sometimes, they grow, on their own, dripping down my palms until they swallow my arms and chew on my bones.  

I'd like to think that no one can see them when they force my own fingers back into my mouth.   I choke and my throat tickles and everyone stares-- they know that they're there.  

They can see my face expanding and my lips tearing

but all anyone does is lean in, pinch my cheeks, and laugh, tearing away with the small black spaces between their fingers.  

[stratos-queer]

One of my poems is getting published and I am SO excited!  This girl I knew from high school is an editor on Faux Journal so I worked with her to tweak it up and it’s been put aside for the journal’s launch!  It’s a small journal and it’s probably a smaller gig than the paper I was on but I don’t care, it’s my poetry and it’s out in the world now.  

The poem is called Black Spaces and I will put the revised version up later.  

[partitionsofdaylight]

Black spaces.

Black space between my fingers open and close as my fists do. Sometimes, they don't, though. Sometimes, they grow on their own until they swallow my arms and chew on my bones.  

I'd like to think that no one can see them when they stuff my own fingers back into my mouth.   I choke and my throat tickles and everyones stares-- they know that they're there.   They can see my face expanding and my lips tearing but all anyone does is lean in, pinch my cheeks, and laugh, leaving with a small black space between their fingers.  

[partitionsofdaylight]

Blood works.

My heart doesn't stop doing that thing, when it pitter-patter-pitters.  It's not really a thumping-- more of a jumping.  But even that implies that I savour every single pump.  Maybe it's faster, an Energizer hop.  I am too awake.  Caffeine and thoughts of thoughts.  Perhaps I palpitate.

[partitionsofdaylight]

Him and me.

This voice over the phone and these few words on my screen are what I spend my energy on.  

I can taste the culmination of our love in the bitter, soap bubble ringtone filling my bathtub.  The aquamarine emitting from my monitor lathers against my stomach and cheeks.  

The steam is deafening. 

[partitionsofdaylight]

Raid me?

Look at me.   See me age backwards; observe as I become this thing, shrunken and unwhole.  

This diminuendo in size, does it amuse you? I'm becoming smaller-- I'm sure you were aware.  I am reducing in front of your eyes.  

Years are torn away from me like leafs off a calendar.  I can not make sense of myself.  What once was is lost.  

Childhood takes the longest; it's the hardest too pass by.  Levels of tar raise to my molars before they recede into my skull, this hollowing space.  

Take it-- my mind.  Douse it with Listerine.  Reverse these contractions and remove the final piece.  

Pinch these fetal cheeks.  I'm yours.  

[partitionsofdaylight]

Rebirth.

I can feel reincarnation slowly setting in and readying itself to take its course as the air cools, precipitation takes on the qualities of frozen peas, and routine becomes constant.  The clock only works in five minute increments. 

I will be a turtle.

[partitionsofdaylight]

Wow, I'm really enjoying reading through your work, it's great!

Thank you :) much appreciated!

[partitionsofdaylight]

Manhood.

The hair on my legs remind me of manhood: hard and twitching, throbbing veins, and fuzz. Methodone addicts in front of cop stations begging for Bigfoot longs, and falling to those hairy knees.   Later, he reaches for southern comfort. Booth babes and bunnies flashing ass cheeks and tits.   Make me a sandwich of cock meat and mustard.   Slice of tomato, if you have it.   It's time to clean up.   Time to shave.   Lather, rinse, repeat until this manhood sheds.   I am la femme. 

[partitionsofdaylight]

Gas Station Gari

Cold-- Warm-- Hot water trickles down my Back-- Breasts-- Thighs. Rivulets of blonde warp into gingery tones. Inedible like that pickled gunge hiding behind recycled pen cap plastic from sullen nudie mags and bumping shoulders with neighbours false grass and fluorescent wasabi. Poor planning may result when electronic ding dongs resound to distract you, giving it a chance to leap into your firstmost cave. Bleach and brine turn gold to ground pork pink. Like cud, nouveau Hay Edition, recombined and regurgitated for your guaranteed dissatisfaction.

[stratos-queer]

Before the clock strikes one.

[partitionsofdaylight]

Quickly now, time is running out.  This is the last one; this final task, and it will be finished.  If not forever, then for now.  It will all be over. 

I can not help but marvel for a moment at the simplicity of this final, culminating act.  Hand him the money and everything will be OK.  It’s almost too easy, like the last 20 minutes of a movie.  That’s all it is, isn’t it?  Tension, climax, falling action, denouement.  Get there on time, hand him the money, he releases her, and we embrace and reflect moments later in a coffee shop, not speaking. 

So I treat this like a movie.  I sit myself down on the specified bench and slide the backpack containing the cash under it.  I know I don’t have long before the clock strikes one—exactly four minutes and 22 seconds—but I’ll try to make the most of it.  Searching the lobby-goers’ faces, I see nothing but exhaustion and distaste.  All of these people going about their daily lives, another day at the office, coming back from their lunch break with no idea of what’s happening.  Their greatest worry being the Johnson report or a careless Starbucks barista messing with their double shot skim lattes. 

Three minutes, 56 seconds.  We’ve got to have a happy ending; mustn’t disappoint the viewers.  They all look so ordinary.  It’s not something you would think, that one of these people took her.  People—no.  Monsters.  Monsters of fairy tale nightmares hiding under our beds, sprouting horns and flicking their forked tongues over browning fangs. 

I keep looking into the mass of suits and briefcases, almost expecting to see a goat’s hoof amongst dress shoes.  Two minutes, four seconds. 

[partitionsofdaylight]

Twiggy and the Gentleman

She is twiggy, sticky on this high.  Bloated in the mirror, it’s not hard to hear her cry.  A gentleman appears: Thunderously singing, shaking the earth, typical tremors disappearing.  He embarks on an operatic journey.  Twiggy’s tears ceased;  his sugared look contained no toxicity.  Explicitly simplicity of shock and awe from beauty.  Profuse apologies jettisoned from corn flake lips, but plastic arms still twirled in civic ballet.  From the belfries he watched.  His bell bottoms at Bell’s End, the gentleman simmered.  A balsamic reduction of German curvature stained his paperback heart.