The Itch- A Story Project

The Itch watches them, and thinks to itself: Vacations are a funny thing- meant to relax, but the root of a stressful legacy. Even the pictures look awkward. Family leaning away from each other, arms draped in ungainly angles on one another’s shoulders, smiles looking as if they were pasted on. The Itch doesn’t understand this need to huddle so closely and document time spend together, even when it is awkward, as these Polaroids will document. The Itch does not act though, but sidles back into the darkness, and observes.

But this is not about family vacation. This is about love lost, somewhere in San Francisco. Not only did you leave your heart in San Francisco; it was jostled, shattered, bruised and broken, and then swept up with a shabby broom and placed back in your chest, and left to debate a drive eight and a half hour drive back home to sunny southern California with its victim. There is no real debate. You have that rash again.

The Itch.

Some things are best left alone. Some things are unutterable. Some things hurt in ways that are unspeakable. Some things invade you like a dark blackness, and when you close your eyes, they wash over your body like a wave of despondency so deep, you feel the tightness everywhere, and you are amazed that you still blink, and breathe, and do the simple things, like place one foot in front of the other, and go the grocery store, even though you forget things like toilet paper and milk.

It started out light hearted enough. You’d been together eight years- not one vacation. Not one weekend away from it all, just you two. It was time. Alert the employers- vacation time! San Francisco, here you come! Touristy things- the bay, Alcatraz, China town, clam chowder… You will hold hands, and look at sunsets, and be a clichéd love-y couple, a Hallmark card, and oh, how wonderful will that be.

But then… That bastard… That beautiful shaggy haired, fire-amber-eyed, tall and solid, sensitive bastard. He had to ruin it all. You were happy. You two dressed up; he wanted dinner. All out, he said. You put on your vintage dress, tight and black- red polka dots, cat eyed lines around your eyes, red lips, high heels, red flower in your hair. Him, a vision of manliness in his cabana shirt, and he tucked all of his long mahogany, shiny brown river hair behind a fedora. You stepped out of a 50’s gangster movie- Bonnie and Clyde. Such a pair.

Dinner was great. He let you order whatever you order whatever you wanted, kept the wine coming. An adorable little fish house on the pier. Candles, dim lights, the whole enchilada. But then it happened. The catastrophe. The tombstone. The bereavement. The demise….

The itch- it laughs- it revels in its dark hiding place. It only wants the finest for you, you know that right?

You woke up last night amid Taco Bell wrappers and the stench of stale cigarettes. The sun was burning a hole in your window, and you squinted your eyes while you tried to connect your surroundings with where the hell you were, what is that noise, and what the hell is jammed into your back? The answers, like little image files flying around your brain, floated around awhile before settling themselves into the allotted files in your gray matter. Just off Lyon Street, San Francisco. That incessant clamor assaulting your ears was the horns blaring as tourists prattle around, confused by the one way streets, pissing of locals who are late for work in the boutiques and head shops that depended on the business from the shitty drivers; it's a symbiotic relationship. You were in your car, being molested by the stick shift. That pain in your head was the remnant of too many prairie fires at the Lost Cause Bar last night. You couldn’t deal. You had done it again. You turned to your most stable friend- booze. You had left Brad last night, threw some things into one army surplus bag and stepped out your mutual hotel door. You felt guilty for the lightness of your feet, and as you walked, you were overcome by an undeniable premonition that your name was written on a bathroom wall somewhere, and that you probably deserved it.

He was sleeping, naked and crying, when you left. The sleeping naked part was standard. The crying was not. It was eerily beautiful. As you stared at the long line and jutting curves that formed his long lanky body, you could not control the tears of appreciation from welling up in your eyes. You ran your fingers though the hair that poured itself onto the pillow and the rough cheek. Long and shiny, it is a tangled brown river, snaking its way across the bed and flowing over a muscular shoulder. His body- a striking landscape, better than anything that has ever touched your canvas. The tears on that cheek are like dew on an exotic flower, an iris or a bromeliad. You wondered briefly if you could capture that image- his face a tropical flower sitting on muscular shoulders, moist with the morning air and sad defeated tears. You would do it in oils so it looks permanently damp, lots of blues. You file that thought away in the creative painting file in your brain, and wonder if you could ever go through with putting him on display like that. What would you call it?

"Someone I Hurt, by Celeste".

As you watched the drops that drizzled down from his worn and swollen eyes; you began to understand that those tears belonged to you. They are your sorrow. They belong to you. They fall from you. They are yours. You created them. They are the result of pain you have inflicted on someone who gave you more than you were willing to take; someone who gave you too much. Strangely enough, that makes you okay with what you have done and what you must do. You know what you are going to do; it is what you are always compelled to do. A tear cautiously makes its way down Brad's jaw line, and seeing its target, speeds towards his stubble and spills itself onto the sheets into a dark puddle of its fallen comrades. The sheet is much darker there, almost black, as though Brad is lying on his own liquid shadow. You want to reach out and claim one of those tears you wreaked. You are fascinated by their diligence, flowing strong even after the victim has worn himself out on his ache. You touch one with you finger. You yearn to bring it to your mouth, taste its saltiness, and find satisfaction in swallowing a little part of him to hold inside you forever; you want to feel the stainlessness of the tear trickle down your black spine. You want to arch your back to slow its progress; feel its cool course down every vertebra. You can almost feel it- almost. But for the first time in your life, you restrain yourself. Instead you pull out the army bag, pack your things, and hope that this ends it. How? It doesn’t matter. Your best friend from college lives around here. You’ll stay there. No more sleeping in the car. Before you left- you gave into a small impulse and snapped a quick picture of him- important documentation of what you've learned. You slip the camera into your bag, and lightly kiss Brad's forehead. He moans your name, "Celeste…". Closing the door quietly, you dial Mary-Kate.

"I want to fly. I want to sip life thorough a straw, so I can leave the chunks behind. I want to break myself into a smattering of pieces and throw those pieces halfway around the world, so I can feel everything at once. MK, am I losing my mind? Am I a horrible person?" You are talking too fast, and crying now, not quite the picture of composure you were a few minutes ago. Angry hot tears, you disdain their presence, giving you away. They scream that you are not made of stone. You are not Immune. You are not a statue of Poise. You control nothing. They blaze their way down your cheeks, taunting you with their sizzling trail for thinking you are strong.

"Did you leave Brad?" Hearing the answer in your silence, MK gives you commands.

"Turn on the radio, loud. Do not think. Come over, now." MK reads your mind, does the Mom thing, handed you instructions. When you are holding yourself tight, trying to make the hamster in your brain stop running, trying to make that damned snake in your mind desist the whispering, trying to put a harness on the chaotic zoo of emotions and thought processes, Mary-Kate is there handing you a worn owner's manual to your body. You glance in the rearview mirror- hives on your chest, blotchy, red, irritated. You crank the radio up in the Nova and let the Red Hot Chili Pepper's take you away with "Suck My Kiss". MK knows you better than you do. You try not to scratch as you cut the corners too fast.

MK is lounged across her back patio, the gleam of a streetlight getting caught in her long blonde hair and lending her face a heavenly glow. She stands up, her billowy skirt caught in the ocean breeze as she greets you with a long bear hug; her hair seems as involved as her arms. She offers you a cigarette as we sat down. For awhile you sit and smoke, letting your silence join the waves lapping up the shores below. With the full moon, the bay is bathed in a silver light. You can see the ocean, ever playful, dragging a twisted rope of seaweed back and forth across the sand, trying to incite the beach to take part in a game of tug o' war.

"Was it hard?" She didn't look at you.

"No. I didn't like hurting him. The look on his face was something I never want to see again. I don't know why I am unable to give myself completely. Brad is smart, and passionate, and beautiful. He loved me for my mind. Why couldn't I just give in to abandon?" You knew you were giving her the puppy dog pleading face.

"Because my dear," she said with such frankness you felt like she should be smoking a pipe and wearing a monocle, "that would be changing the leopard's spot. You are a wanderer. You left Rancho because you were stifled by the mundane. You left Brad because he wanted too much. You felt like there was nothing left for you." MK is looked at you, probably to check her statement for the accuracy score she can see on your face. In your mind, she looked at your leopard spots. You can see them; as soon as the words jumped out of her mouth they appeared on your arms, your legs, any and all visible flesh. You looked at them as you clutched the butt of your spent cigarette. They challenged you, dared you to erase them. There were no spots, other than your fading by the minute hives, and you knew this- but you saw them anyway. Mind games, you play mind games with yourself. Needless to say, you have a troublesome imagination. You shook it off.

"Actually," You stood up and flicked the cigarette butt towards an ashtray, " I blame pink."

" You mean the color?" MK has a baffled expression that does not suit her on her ethereal face.

" Yeah. I was going through my bag- and I came across a pair of pink ruffled panties. Their obscene pinkness made me think: I hate pink. I hate ruffles. I hate that pair of chonies. So why did I buy them? Why did I buy a lot of this shit that doesn't seem like anything I'd buy of wear?" You were angry with this pair of underwear. You paced a little on the patio, looking over your shoulder for spies. You see none, and continue.

"Thinking about it I realized what I'd lost. What happened to that girl I thought was sexy?"

MK looks at you. She is waiting for the real story. Nonsense about underwear isn’t doing it for her.

“He asked me to marry him.”

After dinner, you wandered the pier, looking at the moonlight tickling the water. He was particularly attentive, playing with your hair, running his hands down your sides. Together you admired little children whining because they had been in the sun too long, and now their parents were agitated. Kids pulling parents’ arms, sitting in the middle of the boardwalk, or just plain kicking and screaming, their little sunburned faces all scrunched up like they are all full of lemons. Brad sits down in the middle of the boardwalk and pulls your arm.

“ I don’t wanna!” You smile. It’s funny. He’s really a child at heart- always climbing trees and taking things apart only to put them together again. You pull on him to get him to stand up. He is big and bulky and refuses. He wants you to sit down with him. He pretends to throws a tantrum, like a child. You recede. He reaches into his pocket. A ring- the original leash. He smiles. You blanche.

It all flashes before your eyes.
A picket fence.
Little children taking over your body, leeching it from the inside, then taking over your world.
Staying at home, keeping house, losing your freedom…
You’re not ready.
You may never be.
You cannot tie a leash on a bird.
You are wrapped in wool.
You have rolled around naked in freshly cut grass.
You itch all over.
You are infected.
Here we go again my friend.

MK looks at you, runs her fingers over your forehead. She will allow you her home, and her healing grace until you settle yourself and your thoughts. She’s good like that.

“Oh my little leopard…” she sighs.

This was supposed to be a vacation, you keep thinking. Maybe you weren’t meant to spend that much time alone with one another. Maybe it’s better this way. Maybe you are unable to hold a man. Your touch is destruction. Maybe you’re not a leopard, but a black widow. Maybe a bird- longing for wings. You feel like an animal.

You’ve caught that itch again…

You know now that it is time to face what you fear the most- Loneliness. Yes, dear heart. You fear, that the only one who ever cared to know you, you have left, crying beautifully in a hotel room. Have you lost your only chance at love. Love, that evasive hateful beast? You wonder if this is a self-inflicted, masochistic punishment for some sin even you’re not even aware of.

Your heart, a bruised and cumbersome fruit.

His eyes seemed to always be searching, almost defeated, for an answer to a question you were grateful he was too afraid to ask, and then one day- the flood of courage sweeps you both away, and now you are stuck with the debris.

What were you planning on doing anyway?

This was eventually going to happen.

You knew it.

Were you going to tell him you had lied?

That long ago you were contaminated,
And had replaced the flesh he loved with steel,
Stainless and strong to withstand his advances,
And that you are now a fortress of resistance?
That, no, even after so many years, he cannot come in?

Love= Destruction= Ruins= Work= Blood= Strife

And that you, for one, are not strong enough to love right now.

Maybe never?

How can you form the words to say
That for the first time in your life,
You are going to be
What you need to be:

Selfish.

You can't keep trying to give of yourself anymore.
Babe, you don’t have it in you.
Live for you, and for the day.

But the pain…

You've got that itch again...

It is a curse. You are never content. You cannot be caged and seek abandon from lashes, and yet you long for the touch, the love and companionship. Each time- too close- too prickly. Away with you. You have that itch. The hives. The rash. The claustrophobia…

That one that no matter how far you reach, no matter what scratchy appendage you use, you just can't scratch.

You want out.

You want freedom. You want life. You want touch. You want feeling. You want sunshine bleeding through your pores. You want lust. You want gluttony. You want the seven deadly sins. You want to live, dammit.

His naked sweaty limbs brought you peace. That gratification on his face brought you release. You gave that to him. His heaven was a gift from you. But it was only temporary. It was not enough. The warmth is only fleeting- like spring. You smile, secretly. You know you have issues. You feel alive only momentarily. But those flashes are gorgeous- like two-second sunrises- like lightening- like mini orgasms. Your body tingles, your brains twitches, you are AWARE. From your teal painted toenails to your fizzy mess you call hair. You feel every neuron in your cranium - they are ready, they are waiting. Your heart is beating, a primeval rhythm- it speaks to you. As quickly as the awareness hits you, it is gone.

He was naked beside you. He was satiated. He looked so peaceful, shiny with sweat, flaccid, tired, and spent.

You were always antsy. You were perpetually looking for that spotless sunrise energy. You once touched it. For a moment, he made you feel it. But it is long gone now. You want it. It burns. You are full of desire. You itch. You cannot scratch.

I have infected you, you know. I am a part of you now- more than what shows in the occasional rash on your olive skin. I chose you, out of so many. I am the double-edged sword- the one that makes you feel safe and in danger at the same time. Your weapon and your malice. You- you with your love of life- something most people don’t fathom with their nine to five and the daily grind and the plop on the couch and whining about bills and popping out babies and complaining about the neighbors and idolizing celebrities- you understood life. Those 2 second sunrises- that is what life is. I too, live to be aware, and hunger for brain-twitching sunrises, even if they last but two-seconds. That is enlightenment, that is the secret. You were special. It is a curse; it is a gift. Your spark. That is what singled you out and got you into this mess. Must you scratch me away? Doesn’t the tingle remind you are alive? Is it worth it?

Oh, insatiable itch…

You feel alone in a swarm of people. You feel as if somewhere in you, something was not installed correctly. You think perhaps you were born broken. I understand. You are not alone on this. Sometimes I feel your darkness, that hollow spot we hide from the world, and for just a few seconds, that luminous spark--sputters--.

Some things are unutterable. Some things hurt in ways that are unspeakable.

MK floats into the room, she’s making a complicated braid in her hair. “I think you need to go dancing.”

“I think you’re right.” You smile, the rash tingles.

We’ll be alright.

Love Diagnosis

Trying to put love into words. An exercise in amorous flexibility. Proof of love’s existence, because in my mind, to love is to live- and haven’t I done it?

But easily said- not yet done. Love is not what I believed as a child. One man for one woman, a bolt of lightening, a perfect undeniable match, with no room for debate or reason- just a look, that shock and BAM! Eternity.

But then again, most things did not turn out how I believed they would when I was a child. I have not yet discovered the cures for all diseases- including my Big Three: cancer, heart disease and diabetes. I am not yet a horse trainer, and I have only been heroic a few times, and not one of those time have I been in a modernized version of Wonder Woman’s bad ass get up (different colors, of course: red, black, and green). I have not become a feminist lawyer. I am lacking in the publication quota department, and none of these meager works are children’s.

I have been lazy I guess.

Back to love and its spidery complications. I always thought it would be more direct- it would punch you in the face and there would be no avoiding it and that was a good thing because it was righteous and justified and the way things should be. Now some people were unlucky and that fist never found them, or the fist was off the mark, but for the most part, love was a Cupid form of Mohammad Ali. Float like a butterfly, sting like a bee, and that sting was full of honey Baby.

Now, all grown up, years and years into the love tango- because that is what it is, an intricate dance- I see things about love. It is a delicate balance, too easy to miss-step. It buries itself, and is sometimes hard to find and recognize. It is evasive. Sometimes, if you dig it out of hiding, love gets very excited and blazes its head like a sun. Love shines. This is usually new love. Later though, love is tired from all that shining, and buries itself somewhere. It can be hard to locate and easy to lose, and the couple will forget what brought them together in the first place. I’ve witnessed this, left in the dark, the once happy couple says hurtful things to one another, throws dishes, intentionally shrinks favorite clothing items and calls it an accident, sleeps with each other’s friends, stops taking important phone messages, finds excuses to not go to the other's doctor's appointments (even when there is blood being drawn), leaves their dirty socks all over the house, just to agitate. Sometimes the people stay together, sometimes they don’t make it. That’s life; that’s love. Eventually love will wake up, and if the couple is still together, they may start to feel its warmth on their feet at night- and then on their shoulders in their morning… They’ll be ok.

Me: I’m a different story. I’ve been watching love for too long. I see family members fall to its whims. I don’t know that I can play by the rules.

Him: Beautiful. Long and limber, with the heart and soul of something fuzzy and protective, all I can say is this:

I am a difficult person. Honestly. I am not the nicest of people, though I always have the best intentions. I am far too opinionated, slightly cold unless you know me very well, and probably come off as slightly snobbish as well because I don’t know how to speak colloquially. I don’t like being touched, and don’t really smile or laugh easily. I am uncomfortable in groups, and on top of all of these flaws, and have medical problems that need to be addressed on a regular basis. I’m not a solo-flying freak or anything- I have wonderful friends who I hug, and I laugh with- it’s just the general population, or “strangers” if you will. I am just very self- contained. I keep a tight reign on all my emotions.

He not only accepts me how I am; he loves me for it. It’s ok because I’m fighting to save the world, even if it’s only in my backyard. He reminds me of my volunteer work, the tutoring, my abilities with children. He will tell me I’m pretty when I’m not, or when I have BBQ sauce on my face, or a huge zit, or when I’m attached to an IV in a hospital. That is love at work.

One small detail:

I lose my head quite often. I feel alone and crazy and that the top of my cranium may either blow right up into space, or right down into the gray matter. Either way- I don’t know. I’m losin’ it, right? People, family, close friends. They know… go...away. She’s having a hamster day, where her brain is on the hamster wheel and she just can’t get it to stop running that stupid little wheel- get out of her way. I can’t handle all these morbid awful horrible thoughts that are catching up with me, and I want to scream and cry and possibly commit homicide at the same time, and let me tell you folks, it ain’t gonna be pretty. And I’m throwin’ stuff and thinking about adopting kittens, and the only person who can take me out of this is him. I see his face, and I don’t know if it’s biology or the way his nose is set so delicately below his perfectly spaced pond green brown eyes, the way he’s put so artistically together or pheromones, or what, but the moment I see him I stop and just run into his arms, and he rubs my head, and wipes away my psycho tears, and we eat ice cream and I’m ok. That’s love.

I add:

I love the way our bodies intertwine. I am so much smaller than him- maybe a whole 12 inches shorter. He can wrap his entire body around mine, almost like a cocoon. I nestle my head in his chest hair and listen to his heartbeat, it’s the sweetest music, and he runs his fingers through the mess on my head, and we can sit like this for a long time, but it makes me fall asleep so I move. I know he is disappointed, because he likes bringing me peace, but when I sleep during the day, I feel like I am missing life. But I still love cuddling up to him. He is the safest place to be. I think that is what love is- your safe place.

I think that is why love needs to slip away, when it doesn’t feel safe anymore. The fighting starts, and it packs a bag, and skips out. But once you settle down and give in the pull of two souls, who just want to intertwine and protect one another, then love will come back to shine again. But not until then.

Poop

She is a poop Nazi. She has dehumanized herself- it is amazing. Never does she defecate, or drop a load, or take the kids to the pool, or pinch a loaf. When that door closes that woman shits rainbows.

Me, on the other hand, yeah- no rainbows here. I'll be in the middle of squeezing out a vein throbbing, crowd-worthy floater (not that I want the audience- I'm not sick man, but really, some of the things that come out of my backside should have a blue ribbon attached) and in she barges, looking for nail polish the exact shade of the Incredible Hulk. Or she needs to pluck her eyebrows. She'll just sit there in front of the mirror, tweezing and plucking away... while I strain and sit there helpless trying to be dainty while doing the inhumane thing of emptying my wretched bowels. Now if I were to pull a stunt like that- you know deciding to shave or something while she makes glitter and rose petals- I would be verbally whipped harder than Devo.

Her face turns red. She sputters. Horns begin to sprout. This is not allowed. I am not permitted to know of the dirty and perfectly natural things her and the rest of the human race must do as a side effect of consuming meals.

I'm not some feces loving perv. I don't someone to drop a steaming log on my chest and then rub it all over my face. I hear some people really enjoy that, and more power to you. Not my thing. I just thought that the rules may apply to both people, and not just one. Why is my little haven invaded while I am fighting Sgt. Poo, and yet if she's pushing out perfume-scented flowers and confetti, and perhaps a unicorn (hell I don't know- I'm not allowed in there), I am shooed away like the goddamn plaque?

It make me feel like a poop-infested freak show. It makes her seem like a doo-doo weirdo. I mean she can let loose a hardy stream of pee, no worries- what's the problem?

Besides, she tells me that all girl poo actually does smell like roses and lavender gardens, and truly looks like rainbows, which I think would a mind boggling sight.

I don't understand women at all.

Defective and Neglected Parts

Eyes are twitchy.
They beg me for something else to look at.
Soon, I tell them. Soon.
They don't really believe me,
but they'll humor me for now,
and allow me a vision.

Hands, so shaky.
They dry themselves and crack
in protest of the injustices done to them:
too much work- not enough frolic-
no extra upkeep to maintain their youthful appearance.
I promise them a coat of lime green nail polish,
give their nails some pizazz.
Hands say they'll hold me to it.

Legs, they grow a-weary,
and they begin to trudge,
threatening not to take any more steps,
telling me to sit down.
No, I tell them sternly.
Have you gone soft?
You are twenty five years old.
You have never ran a marathon, or had a child.
You are my reliable source of transportation.
Haven't we been through a lot together?
You are not quitting now. Go.
They look ashamed,
and then step up the pace.
That's better.

Back whines, Head screams, Feet mumble.
A mess of defective and neglected parts .
It's all one general complaint.
I keep going with a system of rebuke and promise.

I wonder,
If someday,
I will have to sit down in little dark room,
just me-no one else,
and deal with all the voices in an organized manner.
File all the complaints, take notes-
Truly hear to and actively listen to each grievance
until I discover what is
truly wrong with me

I wish I was

I wish I was eating pancakes.

Instead, I'm contemplating the demise of nations, the fall of Troy, how the atom bomb was born of the minds of simple scientists, how blackmail is so easy if no you have no morals, and how Cleopatra was incredibly sexy.

My Disgusting Skin

I shed another skin this morning-
right out of a steamy primordial shower.

It came off in thin transparent films.

Slightly grey in color.

Almost sticky,
Definitely gross.

Disgusted a little,
I peeled off what was left of my former self.

I look at it,
all crumpled and sorry-
a feathery skin pile mess.

I can't help but wonder what this all means,
and who might occupy this new skin.

Murder on my mind...

Woke up this morning
Murder on my mind

Everything seemed to be
Smeary
Hazy
Gritty

All shades of a deep rosy red-
Filtered gray

I went walking
and the streets were busy
loud compact cars
with protesting mufflers
that sounded like the kind of woman
who is always asking for money

I walk fast
I walk stiff
The noise of these Doritio bag and used condom strewn
streets has always given me a throbbing
right on the temples

I am a robot now

I ignore the man in the big rig
who has tits bigger than mine
but somehow feels the need to comment anyway

I am a robot
stepping with the rhythm
I have just now found

Matching that crimson ache in my head
Pulsating
My legs are switchblades

I am a terminator
made to kill
walking as if I have a deadline
some place to be

Seeing red
Blurry edges

I awoke today- Murder on my mind.

I'm all shaky today- a whirlwind of too many violent emotions in too frail of a female body . I'm pissed off. I'm horny. I'm tired. My head pounds like a flurry of doc martens running a marathon. For no reason. I make no sense, but plenty of nonsense.

I've been craving. Food in particular- spicy things. Jalepenos. Mole. Enchiladas like moms used to make. Gallons of beer to wash it all down.

Ahh beer, the sweet nectar of the gods. Forbidden to me. What I wouldn't give for the ability to drink a six pack of Corona right now. A finger? Possibly. Maybe the pinky, or index- I see no need, and the buzz would be worth it. I miss that special looseness, that quite frankly, I just haven't felt in a while. I can't even sleep. Naps- out of the question.

I feel the need to be on my toes at all times. For what ends? I mean, why? There is no secret government entity, that I know of anyway, after my secret formulas, or anything like that. I'm not a wanted woman, or a celebrity. I'm not known for my panty slips, or outrageous drunken exploits. I feel stalked, like something big, and dark, and morbidly obsessed is out to get me. Is this paranoid. Definitely. In fact, I probably need some kind of therapy or medication for it. But without my special brand of crazy, am I really me?

Words of Wisdom:
"Go outside and play."

Modern Day Eve

Snake-like, his body- long, slender. The hair on his chest glimmers like scales. I know the secrets of a thousand Eves before me. Adam and the snake- one and the same. Both cold-blooded. They both take warmth only as desired. But I am not afforded that luxury, that comfort.

You stood before me, green all around you, hair gleaming and unshorn, smooth, shiny, serpentine, smiling. In your left hand you held the celebrated apple. I could not resist you.

Now I have bitten bitter of the proffered apple- I cannot stay away. In the tender juicy flesh of the fruit, I found all there is and all there can be of love, of life, of sensuality. My neurons all fired at the same time, and my brain began to thirst for knowledge, and to lust. I love the feeling- the burst of wisdom. It burns- I have an inferno inside me where before I held nothing. But it is not without pain.

I know now that love is not given gently, but is a battle fought with teeth and hooves- or skin and scales. I know what fire he can offer me and I stay as close to him as possible to feel it. His touch, even when cold and scaly reminds me of lush gardens and huge red blossoms. I want to wrap him around me. I want him to squeeze, to hug, to embrace, to dance. But he is, eyes flashing, so distant. He does not suffer as I do, will not do his smooth-slither-strut towards me. He will not make the first move.

Angry at an argument- I try to stray. But in the remoteness my bones ache in the wake of his chill. I soon return, seeking to warm myself, eyes downcast, studying my heels, and my baggage light, in the fervor of his blaze once more. I am not yet defeated though, and when night drapes its thick blanket over the world, I put distance between him and I in our bed. I shiver and layer myself with quilts, while he, naked as sin, lies on top of the sheets, oblivious to my torment. Him: a long lank furnace, radiating heat. Me: a small compact form, freezing under my mountain of blankets.

For now I have observed- a modern day Eve- I have learned from their mistakes. And their biggest one was thinking they were flawed. If offered the apple again- I would do the same thing again- a thousand times over. I love my Adam/ serpent. The without the fight how could I appreciate the quiet warm times? The insight, the perception…I wouldn’t give that up. So for now, I will wrap myself in fig leaves as protection from my naked soul, and do my best to hide the calm pain in my eyes that I know lurks there.

itch

I've got that itch again...

That one that no matter how far I reach, no matter what scratchy appendage I use, I just can't scratch.

I want out.

I want freedom. I want life. I want touch. I want feeling. I want sunshine bleeding through my pores. I want lust. I want gluttony. I want the seven deadly sins. I want to live dammit.

Your naked sweaty limbs bring me peace. That gratification on your face brings me release. I gave that to you. Your heaven is a gift from me. But it is only temporary. It is not enough. The warmth is only temporary. I smile, secretly. I know I have issues. I feel alive only momentarily. But those flashes are gorgeous- like 2 second sunrises- like lightening- like mini orgasms. My body tingles, my brains twitches, I am AWARE. From my teal painted toenails to my fizzy mess I call hair. I feel every neuron in my gray matter- they are ready, they are waiting. My heart is beating, a primeval rhythm- it speaks to me. As quickly as the awareness hits me, it is gone.

You are naked beside me. You are satiated. You look peaceful, shiny with sweat, flaccid, tired, and spent.

I am antsy. I am still looking for that spotless sunrise energy. I touched it. For a moment, you made me feel it. But it is gone now. I want it. It burns. I am full of desire. I itch. I cannot scratch.

Can you give it to me?

My Body, My Enemy

My body

My enemy.

Smooth-Soft-Supple

Rounded-Dangerous-Lethal.

Like an expensive car.

Beautiful desire deadly.

Breasts- you get me into so much trouble.

You peer over my shirts,

Trying so hard to climb out,

To display yourselves to hungry predatory eyes.

You are too proud of your perky flourish,

And you arm yourself like a pair of Glocks at your next target-

The next bug-eyed gawker.

Hips-

You are just as bad.

You slide precariously from a narrow waist into

Luscious fatal curves.

Your yielding lines invite hands to run along them

An oasis -A retreat-A sanctuary.

But my hips did not ask me if I wanted their toxic appeal.

Softness of body-

It seems to those who gaze upon it a mark of fragile mind.

He gropes and grabs.

Fingerprint bruises of shame on my arms, and thighs.

My body.

My enemy.

Flatten the hair.

Dull the lips.

Wear baggy clothes.

Be taken seriously.

But I know-

I will never be a man.

And I wish,

I didn't have to want to be,

To feel solid.

So instead,

I learn the games that fatale women play-

Raise you up with softly spoken words-

Just to crush you beneath my blood red stilettos.

Fondle you with light fingers-

But only to leave my mark on you.

Bruise you- Hurt you- Claw you.

You?

You made me this way.

Outfit my breasts with push-up bras,

Cock those hips with tight denim,

Equip my heart with

Resentment

Disgust

Anger

Distrust

Hurt you in the only way I know I can.

My body.

My weapon.

Your enemy.

Untitled

Youth has wing-ed feet
Mine
Has been kept in a cage
For neigh 8 years
Of weighty blood red brick
As I peer through the cricks
Of my self-inflicted
Selfish
Penitentiary
I see Death
Looming
So dangerously

I know I'm not getting any younger
My atrophied youth at my feet
These bricks
So heavily made
Not so easily lifted
Darkness defeated with the removal of just
One brick
Tossed aside

Girl,
Just remember to breathe.
One
Brick- day- thing
At a time.

Poncho

Poncho

Experience
is not
a thing bought-
like a cheaply made
but brightly colored poncho
at a swap meet

Purchased because
you were cold
and it was there
and the colors
did something to you

they swirled around in your head
and made you think of good times at birthday parties
as a small child
pinatas and cake

and

the candy your grandma used to leave out
in fancy glass dishes
that was old people candy
but tasted good anyway

and the colors mesh
like how your brain felt
when you finally achieved your first ashamed
orgasm
at age 14

or

But perhaps you have had
too many cheap
domestic rice brewed
all American brewskies

Because when you get your terrific find home

the colors ran in the wash
and the seams
poorly constructed
split

It seems your experience
and expertise
was misled by
enthusiasm
and nostalgia.

Some things,
you cannot buy.

Not even at the swap meet.

Ripe

I must be ripe.

25 years of sexual development

Have turned me into a

Heavy plum-

Bursting red-

Waiting to be devoured.

Seasoned and mature

I feel my eminent decay

I can see myself

A gooey scarlet smear on the ground.

But for now

The sun is bright and warm.

I am plump and luscious-

Ready to spread my juice.

And the streets are full of beautiful men

That my eyes voraciously gulp down

Ravenous.

This is how I know

My peak has been reached:

Each swagger gets me going

Every swell of a bicep

The men- the prickly Adam’s apples

The slight bulge in the jeans-

So appealing to me right now

That line of a masculine neck-

Make myself into jam in his strong hands.

I can’t help it.

It’s the nature of the rich & ripe plum:

So ready to smush myself

A sticky sweet stain

On one of these

Delicious specimens of maleness

That have been displaying themselves to me lately.

I must be ripe.

Dear heart

We dance carefully now.

Confusion.

You are not to have this effect on me

Not when we are so alike

We were always close enough to cuddle,

Not afraid to embark in fisticuffs

And secure enough in our friendship to not

Worry

About undue sparks.

But…

I guess the house of our camaraderie got

Too warm

Too inviting

And temptation made its trespass.

Out one night,

Dancing,

Playing,

Too much booze.

My back against the wall of some club downtown

It was raining,

I was smoking,

And you were asking too many of the hard questions

About him.

I made the blunder of mistaking your curiosity

For brotherly concern.

But then you were touching my hair-

Suddenly all I could hear was the strange noise

Of our carefully built barrier

Crashing down.

It sounded like love-hate.

It sounded like some kind of passion.

It sounded like confusion.

You pinned

My arms

Above my head

And swooped in for a kiss.

Confusion.

I could not think

Racing through my mind were pinpoints of light and the phrase

“How in the hell did this happen?”

As I tried not to recognize my body’s

Response

To your

Foreign- yet- familiar touch.

Now we are guarded.

Layering our armor,

Like sweaters to protect from the cold.

We are more naked than ever.

Sweet confusion.

If I had known

How much our friendship would change,

Dear heart,

I would’ve kissed you back.

Woman is insecure

Woman is insecure these days. Not quite comfortable in her own skin. She has begun to forget what that is, exactly. She has become a shape-shifter. Who would’ve thought that a body: five foot seven, one hundred thirty pounds, and a mop of golden brown curls could be viewed from so many assorted angles? Different people see her in different ways. It isn’t necessarily a bad thing. It isn’t necessarily a good thing either. It just is.

There is a conundrum with this though. Very seldom do people ever see more than one side of Woman.

For Example:

Mr. Sports Fan sees 36-24-38, a playground of curves. He sees Woman’s shapely form, sees her spunk, feels her biting sarcasm and quick innuendo, gets caught in the heat of her natural sexuality. He thinks to himself, “This lady needs a spanking.” He also thinks to himself, “I’m the one to give it to her.” He pictures leather, pulled hair and swollen lips, sees red. He can’t take Woman seriously. No matter that her words create dazzling images, no matter that her conversation is sharp. He is blinded to it. Leather. Spankings. Done.

For Further Example:

Boss Lady sees Woman’s youth, unruly mop of curls and quick smile, and says to herself, and to anyone who will listen, “Tramp.” Too friendly, she thinks. “Who smiles at everyone like that?” Woman’s smile fades faster than the sunset. Boss Lady is quick to criticize. She is not quick to apologize or compliment. All Boss Lady sees is Trash (too much pride with that perky smile and walk- too much Spirit) and she will treat Woman as such. Young. Tee-shirt. Messy hair. Trash. Done.

You Want More?:

Mrs. Maternal sees Woman play with the children. She watches how Woman tends to bruised knees and the adeptness of her fingers at changing diapers. “Get married. Have babies. Change your name to Mother,” says Mrs. Maternal as her eyes evaluate the width of Woman’s hips and how effective they would be during child birth. “ You were built for it.” Hips delicious. Marriage. Children. Happiness. Done.

For Auxiliary Support:

Mr. Riff- he of the guitar solo and interpreter of the blues. “You’re being used. Every man you’ve ever talked to or been with used you for something. They’ll steal a little part of you just to say they had it. I’ve done it,” says Mr. Riff. “I’ll do it again. I do it to you, right now. It’s in my nature. You need to learn to do it for yourself, and fill that hole where people have take things from you- and fill it with what you have taken from them.” Woman isn’t sure, but if she is vulnerable, in a self- inflicted tower, like Mr. Riff claims- she’d like to jump. Done.

And In Closing Argument:

Sir Philanthropist sees Woman in a golden light. But if she went missing, and you asked him to describe her face; we’d never see her again. Sir P does know where Woman volunteers her time, and with what foundations, and on what days. He looks at her and thinks, “ Such a lovely thing to see someone do more than just talk about it- but actually DO.” That has won Woman lifetime admiration and respect. He knows her thoughts, and he knows the things other people wouldn’t think to ask, like she is currently re-reading both “The Feminine Mystique” and “ The Slaughter House Five”. The prism of colors in her hair, the clear pool of green water color of her eyes, the golden tan of her skin- it’s all lost on Sir P. The curvature of her neck is special only in that it supports her head, which encases her brain. Smart. Sweet. Friends. Done.

Woman is confused. She feels pulled, like salt water taffy, in five different directions. She suspects she must label herself, to place herself neatly into a little category, and that will be the persona she must wear. It fits, sure, but would she buy it? None of these descriptions define who she is...

So Woman walks around, insecure, unsure of her steps. She is fragments of people- becoming whoever you want her to be, whatever the magazines and billboards are demanding this season. Make-up and hair dye can hide any emotions she has; character can hide the rest. Woman has decided that rather than trying to make her true self-known- each intricacy: each stitch that sewed one personality trait to another creating a persona as vivid as a peacock’s tail in full regalia- no. She will switch from a single flat one- dimensional creature to another. Shift. Put on the disguise.

To you:

A temptress. Sultry. Dark, inviting, smelling of cinnamon and dreams so deep you dare not speak them.

To another:

Just another baseball fan out on the field, drinking a cold one, rooting for Guererro.

To her:

A rival for that gig at the magazine you both want.

To him:

A bombshell. A reason to go to work every day.

To that guy:

A ditz, with no opinion worth anything. She trips over her own words.

To herself:

An empty vessel, devoid of all emotion. Woman has lost all self- worth.

You

You:

Sometimes I look at you,

Sitting there, looking at me,

And I wonder if your neuron receptors are getting anything real.

Do you see anything other than a somewhat pretty face?

I fear you only think:

“That’s enough for me”,

And there our story ends.

Me:

I need more.

I cannot be the sweetener in your coffee,

The pillow on your bed,

The small comfort that gets you through,

Your mundane and meager existence.

I am:

A streak of lightning,

An explorer,

An orgasm,

Intense,

Passionate.

I want a brain bond-

A mind meld.

I will climb into your head,

Via your ear,

and crawl around your grey matter.

I want to know every crease, and crevice.

I will dance in your hypothalamus-

Slowly and with perfect rhythm in my hips,

To make sure you want me.

I will memorize every thought and feeling,

I will explore your cerebellum,

Your every move is mine.

I will sleep and reside in your cerebrum,

Until your wits,

And your behavior are my

Responsibility.

That fire, that fervor-

That is what I crave.

Not a relationship I can scrape off

The bottom of my shoe

At the end of the day.

I Stomp Lillies

I stomp lilies
because
they infuriate and confuse me
they remind me
of -

Death:
smelling of my grandmother's funeral-
sickly sweet
arrangements in multitude
blaring sorrow.

Life:
blooming in glory every Spring
in every barren field
in each garden
testimony of their fertility.

To me-
This paradox
merits my size 8 shoe crushing
my discontent and perplexion
down
down
down
onto their delicately
petaled heads.

So goes Life.

Me & Perriwinkle

You

with your body made of

lust

deadly.


You

don't know

you'll be the

demise

of me.


I

watch you walk

long limbs

cat-like

smooth muscle

rippling under those thin pants.


It doesn't take much for me to imagine you naked.

I know I shouldn't, but I close my eyes and I can picture it. Long thin feet, bony ankles, hard narrow calves, narrow hips, slender firm waist. I know what you smell like- spicy sweaty sweet. I know you will have chest hair, and it will thin over your stomach and thicken again over that part of you I try not to think about, but can't seem to get off of my mind.

Like right now. I try to focus on your face- those deep gold brown eyes that search mine when we argue over whether or not I can put a Porsche engine in a V-dub (I can dammit), or your poet's mouth, full and cruel- like a woman's. I try to concentrate on your neck- elegant and strong- shadowed by the beard you can't seem to shave off. I try to think about your hands that fly like sparrows when you speak- but none of this works. I know what hides there. It's your penis I'm after.

It's not that I don't take you seriously as a person. I do. I value your ideas. It's not that I don't listen to you. You have some beautiful theories and you make me happy- but darling- why do you get upset if while we are conversing, my eyes drop to check out the goods?

I appreciate them. I am not tagging a value, a price tag, on you by what I see in your pants. And if sometimes, for example, in the middle of the presidential debates- I feel the need to peel those pants from your long lean hairy legs- why stop me? I want to fondle- to feel the weight of those dangle-y things I do not have, in my hands.

And don't you lie to me- your penis loves me. He sighs with affection. He stretches out, makes himself comfortable in my palm. He is warm and cozy, and hard and soft at the same time. I pet him and he jumps. I lick him and he shudders. He loves to be called dirty names and to be put on a leash and walked around the room.... He even enjoys a little rough housing now and then. I call him Perriwinkle.

Oh, but his owner- his owner is a different story. "You only want cock," says Perriwinkle's owner. "What about me? How am I supposed to feel?" Then he pouts, and sulks, and shuffles about the house, all downtrodden…

”Perriwinkle,” I say, “We need to do something about your owner.”

Perriwinkle nods in agreement.

I Eat People

I eat people

Not like- crack their bones,

Roast them over a fire kind of consumption

But fracture their heads and root around

Their grey matter a bit

Please…

Just enough to get my fix.

Better than chocolate.

Better than cocaine.

Better than sex?

Debatable.

Crawl up inside your head,

Roll around in your nasty,

Get dirty with your thoughts.

Delight in knowing that they are not mine, and yet…

Feel the weight of someone else’s guilt,

The lightness of your joy,

The purity of that couple’s new love,

The raunchiness of their fucking.

I try on other’s emotions,

So as to have no need for my own.

Thoughts On Pictures

In one picture, leaning on a railing, over looking one of what looks like Italy’s famous canals. I am not interested in the intricate and quite frankly breathtaking architecture behind him. I should be – I’ve never been there, and I see no chance of it in the near future. I’ve always wanted to go. But instead, strange thoughts go through my head as I view what should be simple photos of a good friend on an awesome and life changing vacation:

Instead my brain is thinking- I’ve never seen him that relaxed. There is no gel in his hair. Who is that girl in that he has his arm around? She’s in a few other pictures too, and seems like his date in other pictures, and she’s very pretty. Prettier than me. Straight even teeth, very shiny hair. I wonder if they met on the tour? Was there chemistry from the very beginning? How long did it last? Or do they still talk? Does he think about her? I can envision his hands on her curves. The ill-begotten consequence of an active imagination. Does he miss her, long for her body? Or was it a casual fling? Something new and different? How many times did they make love while in different countries? I can tell they did- he has a looseness in his smile that is new- no upturn snarl of sarcasm. There is a relaxation he’s never possessed, a carelessness.

I’m a little sad, though it’s not within my rights. But in all the time I’ve known him, he’s never had that lightness. I’ve never been able to give him a smile like that. Not a bright and happy glow like the one by the canal.

I wonder, is she holding the camera?

I wonder some more, what the hell is wrong with me? There was never a possibility. You passed- remember? His arms were there, you turned your head. You blocked. You resisted. You’re not on the market.

But still, wrinkled shirt, soft bristled hair, relaxed arms, easy smile- I could’ve given him that.

Have I lost something?