E'redai

I think about you everyday.

When the coffee pot is hours late and raccoons are attacking the attic door, and the mailman missed us by inches, and all I want is to go back to sleep!!! See Mariah... using irritated skin serum on her fingers to cruelly extract strands of black curly hair. turn the page. Now we can watch Mariah purposefully "lose" the index card with a romantic-grunge-king's cell digits imprinted on it in disgusting black ink. Say hello to Spring. 'hi' to cyanide.

How could this have happened? I can't... fix it, except by leaving. That hurts, too. You s-a-v-e-d me. It's more serious than suicide. I wouldn't have made it this far with a personality if you were not there. and I would've lost everything I had inside me if you hadn't goaded it on, in the best way imaginable. You made me want to be myself again. I cant repay that. this is what I did; I think I ____ __ ____ ____ ___.

and I would say it. but that can't fix it; just make it hurt more. your name's still in my browser. and I have to delete it soon. fuck. I don't know how this happened, I'm so sorry.

The best part about us was that you were untouchable. I never wanted you like that. I never... liked you that way. Even though some people thought that. I knew I didn't. Until now.

oh fuck. I can't lose you like her. I can't. Not after you helped me get over that... only to lead me back to it. I won't do it. what am I going to do now?

Maybe we meant it.

They'll write stories about us one day; hell, I will. We'll be read to children before they close their eyes or assigned to high schoolers for thesis papers. College professors will recommend they read us so as to reach an understanding of what true tragedy is. We'll be a prerequisite, a requirement, whichever one that fits. We'll be the title in the summer reading or part of the class summary. Because I promised I'd make you famous, and the pages will write themselves for us. Everyone enjoys a nice horror story, and we're the ticket, baby.

The introduction is the last letter you wrote me, and chapter one is when I met you. God forbid, but chapter two is how I lost you already. And the following fifteen chapters are a recollection of the memories that brought us to this point. We're good for literary analysis, as well, because we're distraught with foreshadowing and flashbacks. Fifty ways to hold you close. Thirty ways to hug a fried in need. That's chapter three. I'd tell you the ending, but right now it's a toss between early death [suicide, of course] or a poetic manifesto on moving on with life. Both suck. And it's too friendly to write a synopsis on how we could've solved the problem; us.

We'll be in Oprah's book club. Dr. Phil will use us to help counsel his patients. And every soul-driven adult will buy us to pass the time while their spouses cheat on them. Pre-teens will see their older siblings engrossed in our binding and ask for us for christmas. There'll be misgivings, but their parents will wrap us up anyways. That's the beauty of fads, and we'll be the newest trend.

It isn't about the money. Getting paid is the least of my worries. Maybe if a paragraph or two could help me understand, help me deal, then the book has served its purpose. It's not about everyone else's reaction; just yours. Because when you read the dedication and see your name; You'll know I've kept good on my promise. Just wait for it. Unsuspectingly, you'll turn the page and get lost in regret; yours, not mine. The book is how I will solve myself; and I'll hope against hope that maybe it can reach you, too.

I'm not afraid anymore. Let the novel be my testament against everything that went. For this is for you, and for you this will be the closing argument. the end.

You're my Dorian Gray

God was not an option. He couldn’t help the sweater queen in her dire time of need. Praying wasn’t worth the energy to fold her hands; my hands. The licorice ropes of semi-sweet artificial flavoring did more for the soul than monotone chanting ever could. That’s how gluttony makes birth, through doubt of the church. And I’m sorry to explain that I’m the repeat offender. Consider revising your semicolon usage. There’s a grammatical error in my strut and an arrest warrant pending for my confidence. Which is why I turned away from the idea of God. This isn’t ‘alcoholics anonymous’; I’m not required to surrender myself to anything but love. Love, that doesn’t exist anymore. It’s all condoms and doors, for now. Sperm and suicide, I guess. Shuffled responses, averted glares, and we’re stopping revolving windows in their tracks. We can’t slam them; they’re circumferential.

When I found the hope to care, it was too late. It was March in September-time. There’s a crackling pop of incendiary regret and I keep it under lock-in-key in my safety deposit box below the mattress. And even if I could play the piano, I would refrain from creating a ballad; need I be reminded by keys and tunes of how much I can’t bear being without you, now that I’ve had you. I don’t want to be alone. I’m having a difficult time losing you. Every time I seek out to find you, you just keep hiding again, like this is some perverted game. I don’t play that way. Consider this my white flag; I’m through with trying to salvage these feelings, where I’m the victim of the dreams you’re living out.

There are dugouts dedicated to us. Parking lots, too. Places where we met over and over again to the extent that we could be remembered. I know you do; but you can go on and pretend you don’t. There’s leniency in the empathy I have for you. I know you’re in pain, but I also know you don’t like to show it, as opposed to my methods of causing your unraveling. I loved you and love is what love does. Our love does not exist; therefore, love itself doesn’t either.

There is so much gorgeous beauty in how I lost her. From the rising action, to it's climax, and the lack of a resolution. It's pretty and feminine; therefore artistic and flirty. I should thank her, because everything what happened is what happened to me. People do change. Or, they become masterful at concealing their old ways. I like the change. It's romantic how there's two of her; the one I loved, and the one she is now. It's remarkable how similar, yet opposing their characteristics are. I find myself indifferent to version 2.0, that's not the one that captivated me. So why do I even dream of having her back, when she's a clumsy remodel of the girl I cherished? exactly. I don't. And I have finally come to terms that the original masterpiece that consumed me is just that; a portrait hanging within my memory. She doesn't exist in the real world, as a painting doesn't. She's a fleeting thought or whim. She's an impulse from a previously suppressed desire. I love that about her; both of her. I can carry her picture wherever I go, and it can be torturous at times, but also relieving. Sometimes, if I pretend the girl I fell in love with is still alive, I can survive the trivial pains in life. But that's all it is; pretending. Because she is gone forever. And I couldn't be happier that I have the power to preserve her in my mind for even longer than forever, while the real girl, the true physical manifestation of my adulterous obsession, continues to pursue a meaningless sequence of existence, I have her previous self, making history in my brain. No one can ever take that from me. Not even her; either of her.

When chapter one is just an introduction.

So the bigotry was vodka-ridden, this isn't kindergarten; it's christian. The drunken melody of a sob story is nothing more than rock N' roll in a bar. There's Irish brew and static pews of prayer, let's chant and sing for saints we celebrate. We know nothing we're human and fickle. Light up this clear white sky and send the rockets for the stars, if they land we're genius, if not, we'll bail out. Or abort, it's sort of the trend these days.

The radio dials tune a song I know all the words to, shock. and we're not going to third cause first and fifth were just as previous, if that ever could make some sense. It's poetry, it's prophetic, that's bullshit if my fingers ever grazed the semicolon, love.

I get to spend a delicious hour in the bacon hallway with syrup dripping from the ceiling. And the mighty dinosauric eighteen wheelers that drive by have sex tunes from the 1940's. The guy in the hat, he stops. and he asks me the advantage of bagging the milk. I thought that was funny.

It's co-ed, it's venture, it's crap; it's the triumvirate fracture, love.

Stop everything. Of all the absolutes, you're sincerely the most indefinite. La Vie Expulsion, I will never forget it. I knew March was coming, I should've prepared. There will be a March eleventh every year for the rest of my life. Love to love through it, strife for death and matches, lovers need light-switches, and liars need instances. Let it roll, let it rock, let it be?

If all you need is love, my love, we're fucked.

Stand by nothing; no morals amongst the moral-less. Sit in class, call it class, or it's trash. In a bin; talent. Whatever did Mr. Robinson have to say when he heard of his wife's affair?

I'm still taken with violins. They screech when they're strung out, like me. A single year. a date, pinpointed to the very second it was set free for the woods, or for public school. Absolutely, you're on the run, you're won with one.

I'd rather be envy; it's green, as opposed to jealousy which is also green but a different emotion altogether, let's agree. It's an entree better off than and it's a promise for some juicy gossip. Well, it's important to me. And as rarely as your character has grazed such interpreted lines, now it seems the time. Hopscotch; I have to be careful when jumping around you.

and what we're starting--this right here--is how I lost my best friend.

At least, in that perspective, I was as perplexed at such a vestment of unorthodox taxonomy literally pawning off the distribution of unworthy pamphlets to worthy bleeding organs. You think I actually want to read your initials everywhere I turn? You're wrong. Always were. It lured me to you, now I'm just disturbed. As time dictates the day, so does it mandate the onslaught of unwelcome memories. Because at 6:30 sharp, she'd call. Her car horn beeps at seven-oh-five, and I barrel out the door barefoot and clutching a toothbrush. There's coffee in the cup holder for me if I smile. At 7:10 we're in and cross-legged outside our sanctuary; The hallway of epic musical instrumentation and orientation. They're finished braiding my curls by the first bell, and I'm off to "Science Tutoring" with love and a religion teacher. Every early morning torture 'cause the whole class knows I'm in love with her.

There's a lighthearted concept of concern in used condoms. You have homework? Fuck your life, no, fuck you, deal with it, babe, that's life, and this is wizard's chess. I am the blind enclosing the swell box in an organ.

Straight Volatile.

All glitter and gowns, all vendor and sounds. Peace, love, time to grow up, infinitely. Calm yourbandana, it's fashion; it's black, it's passion, it's back, indefinitely. serendipity. serendipitily? with serendipitous? does anyone have a dictionary? Of course not.

Course. or worse, path? Roads are taken, and lost, and dead-ended. Splendid. You can be nonconformity, I'm normalcy, supposedly. Veins, I'm vain.

If i had a dope war, I bet I'd get robbed and shot. As she pours another drink, her cleavage is escaping, sitting at the picnic table, gaping, truth or dear, I swear, this game will end in stop signs. I was right. The water bill is high because the faucet dripped all night. Stop burning bridges to kill yourself, don't pollute, just drive off the edge instead; it's efficient. No, it's bedtime. Curl into my covers and seep into my rainbow sheets, please. I want to feel your dreams. scratch that, I want to fill your seams. I want noteworthy schemes and explicit means for losing teams. and screams, streams of them with needs. or seeds, it seems girls spin trees for me. It bleeds streams of themes so they cream for Joachim. the esteemed regime dictates an extreme or green revolution. So fight pollution in your vegan-alternative lifestyles.

I'll be there. For shipping method and shopping credit, for you. In parks with cops and I4 sparks, I'll sit in the passenger seat and be there for you. Wrecks and sex; that's next; that's us. Plus, I pay for the liquor unwillingly; stilling all desire for inspiring crevices of lost cities.Panic, meet the press.

Assess the lyrics of irate artists on scratched CD's. Dead with thatched memories. or tools of foolish mediocrity. Democracy in a magicians top hat pulled out a rabbit, sad, really the naivetyof a cabaret's 'deceivity'. I've got my own dictionary on Ebay along with potato chips the shape of jesus' balls. tap, tap, tap. and then... just smack. *DING* please, turn the page. Or pass the milk, it's the same.

I'm still too young for a sea of conniving attention. Not to mention the pension I'm sure to receive. Oh lord and salsa; "Kayak" reciprocals. how cool, how chic, how weak? Au Contraire.And then how can a piece of ply wood be slinky and crawl down the front porch stairs? because of love. or Winn Dixie. or Wal-mart. or cocaine.

So our rebellion predicted a rise in the consuming of scotch. We blamed the ride for the clocks in the tides. and it's done on purpose so mahogany boys can lace fingers with girls that have jobs at the circus. Silver rings? Please. We're seventeen, not thirty-twelve, take your engagement to the moon, you're killing the chance this generation had. The leader in the circle is selling bubblegum smiles, and we'll park for awhile and swear at the sergeant major who majorly is a pain in the ass.

It's not my job to maintain the rest of the world's trends. I don't have a crack-selling boyfriend to teach me the facts of life, and I couldn't have been staring when he walked by because I can promise you that's not my type. I don't do deaf, or deal, or wind-chimes. I'll deny I'm simply frilly, and wear sneakers to bed in order to stop my feet from going sore in my nightmares.

Anasazis.

Rhyming poems are liars. While you're reading you have to wonder if they said it because it rhymed. They can't coincidentally mean every line and it happens to rhyme? Inconceivable.

Practice makes crashes; we're perfect at it. We're purple, we're picks, we're sticks, we're murder. We've got March on our minds, let's boycott the rest of our lives, it seems to choose a greedy choice, so it's unwelcome. We kidnapped it. Zip-tied it. It's in the back with the seats pulled down, a gesture so familiar to me. We're just stealers, theivers, teenagers, lovers, haters, bakers, candlestick makers? Well, we were. We were finite, finesse, and death.

The ghost of a stone sculpture holding a protractor in front of the Mormon church. You're Krystal Meth, I'm vexed. I see a guitar pick around your neck; that's sick. He's bassist, and fascist, I hate his guts, at last. At last, you've responded.

I'm cruisin' for a bruisin' and that's exactly what your dishin' out. I give up. The Triumvirate Fracture is slowly approaching, I need to forget. Forget forgetting, forget to remember, forget you. I've got labels for purchases, groups, cliques, and people. It's bizarre, I know, but I'm stranger.

Rogue, awkward, whatever. We're still the same old kids just living for a break. We'll take what we can. You're my best friend, my worst friend, my girlfriend, my boyfriend.

I have delicious delicacies in my own little reality, I'll stay here, thanks, and leave you to that other world, where cool is clearly ostentatious, and teenagers are getting pregnant, and poor people can blame the rich, and the rich just get richer. And your best friend can take twenty-four hours to decide she hates your guts. Where girls can change their hair if they don't like what they were born with, and boys can take pills for the same effect downstairs (you know what I mean...) and this is the place we call home. It's nice, if you forget the price we're paying. Lovely. I'm staying in Mariah-world. Join me, there are baked goods involved.

When you're addictive, you're insatiable. You're a parable, a caroler, cajoled, agile. It really only makes this harder. Stop analyzing it, just enjoy it. There's a beautiful place out there. Granted, it's covered, imposed, impounded(?), surrounded, and accosted by city structures and functions. But it's there, I swear. Won of their wars are fighting within it. If you ignore the streetlights, I'm sure the dim skeletons of souls and decomposed organisms will illuminate themselves for you. I'm proud, you've opened your eyes. You finally saw everything I've been attempting to smash through your brain. And since you're done rejecting it, let's hymn our way to the crops.

Action, it's significant for sex and work-outs at the gym. I'm imagining things I shouldn't. The first house on the right or the top floor in the tallest building for sights of seeing. We're fleeting. We're fleeing? We're leaving, because it's over. And we've left for lost and most of all, we're gone because it's ended with a dismal closing credit.