Monday, January 14, 2013

No Reason and Every Reason to be Mad

“Are you sad?” I ask, because I see his face when I enter.

“Yah.” And he shakes his head like he’s not sure, like there’s some more macabre set of feelings he’d like to express. Like he restrains himself. Like I do.

“What are you sad about?” I say in my most calm, daughter, non-druggie, loving, rational voice.

“You and me. Char and me. The Broncos.”

“Well you don’t have to worry about you and me,” I say.

“I just can’t take it anymore.”

“It will get better,” I offer.

“I don’t want to talk about it.”

And I leave with Lacey, try to escape from the mess. It’s what I’ve learned to do. It’s the only thing I know how. 

Friday, January 4, 2013

The Difference

His bedroom is bare, because the stress of clutter keeps him awake.
I can't put away my apartment, because the thought of here wards off sleep.
He wants interaction; I do too.
He wants something exciting and different; I do too.
The only difference is us.

His wardrobe is rehearsed, because it's what he's kept of his creativity.
I switch between sweats and couture, because I'm in between dreams and sleep.
I want commitment; He does too.
I want forever and always; He does too.
The only difference is us.

There's more hate than a newborn baby.
More love than a murdered child.
Everything exists that never isn't possible.
Our future is as real as a black hole, spiraling before without after.
Is he wondering what that means?

My kisses are real, because they've always been and cannot change.
He longs for me when he needs something genuine, because I'll be there.
I want him to smile; He does too.
I want how it used to be; He does too.
The only difference is us.

My sorrow lingers, because you can never forget a true love.
His sorrow lingers, because true love travels back and forth between there.
He wants to know; I do too.
He wants open doors, and maybe that's the difference.

There's more hate than the ending of a war.
More love than a hurricane evacuation.
Nothing dies that ever didn't evaporate.
The past is funny like a fairy tale, something to discount while growing up.
Is he wondering what that means?

The only problem is us.
The only beauty is us.
The only sorrow is us.
The only difference is us.

Sunday, December 9, 2012

There's this dog that I have and she'd rather have nothing to do with me. I wonder if she senses that I can't keep her safe, that I killed her sister, that if the power went out, I'd lose her and let her get thrown down the trash chute.

I wonder if she thinks I love Nadia more, and I wonder if she feels my ambivalence to the world, if she knows I've nearly given up hope, if the difference between her and Nadia was growing up with a mom who had ideas.

And I've been cleaning up my Gramma's apartment. I feel proud that my mother doesn't have to do it, I feel better about not being able to say goodbye. My mom says she can't do it, and I know how she feels. I remember the weight of her shoes by the door, the cloud of her writing on the 2003 calendar gracing the kitchen in 2011, the screaming photos on the wall, the cup near the sink.

Losing a mother is the most gut-wrenching pain that I can imagine, or rather, that I have been through.

I ache thinking about how my own mother's apartment will be post-mortem.

The mania I'll feel if anyone touches anything. The hysteria I'll embrace at every momento of her. A pink teacup that Karma broke. The electric blanket that she couldn't live without. The adorable Raggedy Ann on the shelf.

And I wonder if I'll ever love another as I love her.

So this is really love?
Is that what you mean?
I want to knock on your door and make you kiss me.
I want to never talk to you again.
I love you. I hate you.

And you've ruined the sound of the guitar.
Every chord smiles like you, smells of your fingers.
Locks me in the basement,
with you.
Where I first heard,
and where we made love,
on your secondhand couch.
Did another girl hear you there?
Am I just another?

I can't remember the last time awe was mine.
And I still taste it in my teeth, despite.

Okay, so I get it that you don't want just one.
But, I'm in the running, and don't tell me I'm not.
So treat me as such.
Talk to me.
I'm not leaving.
I just wish you'd stop keeping me sacred,
so it wasn't all black and white.

Let's pretend we're strangers.
At least I can keep you close for your stupid back up plan.
God, I'm desperate.
Why do I ever talk to you?

Thursday, November 29, 2012

Unfortunate Glimpses

A dead dog in the trash.
A broken mannequin on the streets.
Dreams packed up hastily
     in black trash bags.
A loved body in the trash.

A declined credit card.
Beautiful garments in the mall.
Dreams charged up hastily
     on lost credit cards.
Perfect credit and debt on cards.

Monday, November 26, 2012

How could you let this happen?

The sad part now is that I've gotten used to the throbbing pain of loss. It doesn't cause me to wretch in the corner, or to sob in my car. It's numb, it's heartbreaking, but it's always there. Granted, there are the times I encounter my old self. Sadie grabs Nadia's twin bunny from my NY pile. I cry, I watch wedding shows, I cry. But it's more distant now. It's as if no more bad can happen to me, because I already expect it. It already happened, and he fucked it up. Why does he try to pretend when all is already lost?

And I messed it up with Nadia, and I feel it everyday. Her fur is on the carpet, her photos are on my iPad.

I want to stay here to keep them. As the clock ticks, we  become further and further apart. I'm throwing away my NY markers and shunning my CO contacts.



And this is my norm.
I went to New York and saved the style section, Sunday Style, like it meant something, like I'd be something.
I went to New York and acted like a nothing. Drinking at Ryan Maguire's and sleeping in my traffic-clad room. I went to New York and Nadia trusted me, and I let her down, and Nadia is dead.
My poor baby. Nadia is dead!
And I think about all the ways she went, and how I could have prevented it and how I'm so sorry, and how my little sister says, "HOW COULD YOU LET THIS HAPPEN?"
How, could, I let, THIS, happen?
I'm so sorry Nadia.

Monday, November 19, 2012


My baby. 
My tiny Raggedy Ann. 
My baby. 
My cuddle buddy. 
My love. 
My Nadia. 
My cold-hater. 
My lap-sitter.
My licky girl. 
My tiny one. 
My Nadia. 
My best friend. 
My mini-me. 
My gymnastics girl. 
My Pretty-in-Pink.
My love. 
My Nadia. 
My Shadow. 
My baby. 
My baby. 
My baby. 
My uptop. 
My arm brace.
My yesterday. 
My love's baby. 
My honeybee.
My booboo.
My child.
My miracle. 
My tumbler. 
My sleepyhead. 
My little ball. 
My easy one. 
My love. 
My kindness. 
My gentle one. 
Pretty in pink. 
My baby. 
My runt. 
My scared one. 
My cuddly one. 
My hidey girl.
My parrot doggy.
My brave one. 
My friendly girl.
My lick-y babe.
My under the covers girl.
My baby with lipstick. 
My avocado girl. 
My reindeer girl. 
Chelsi's niece girl.
My little NY girl.
My blanky girl.
My hiding treats in your shoes girl. 
My teacup girl. 
My little girl. 
My bark under the covers girl. 
My loves girl.
My quiet girl. 
My bossy girl.
My tiny-pawed girl. 
My baby.
My baby. 
My baby girl. 
My baby, tiny baby.
Nadia was my baby. 

Tuesday, November 13, 2012

The Story is Mine

I look back as if the story isn't mine. Detach myself, and look back, in horror, at the story of a poor little girl with a tragic story. Only in times of solitude and immense desperation do I realize that the little girl in the story is me.

I know it may be bizarre, but you know that song I liked?
What if we went to France and wrote our names on the Eiffel Tower?
Even if it isn't now, it still existed, and it existed strongly back then. What if we did it for us? Even if it was only for the US back then? Those kids deserve a shot....


I comfort my dog, and my words are for Nadia.
I'm your momma, I'll always be there. I won't let you get hurt.

I want to hire a detective.
Investigate the scene.
Make the one who hurt her cry.
Throw him down the garbage chute.