Sabra Girl
I have a box of writing on my bed and I am desiring to create like a man on fire desires to be put out. It is beyond want, or desire, or even need. It is exigent. It is breath. It is happening even as we speak, or even as I type and you read for no matter when you arrive we are speaking to one another. I am sharing and even in your silence, you are sharing back.
Things that are true. I don’t like the idea of being friends with your girlfriend. Truth be told, I’m beginning to hate you for giving me the opportunity.
I want to play my guitar and not explain myself to anyone. I want the itch I cannot scratch to go away. I want to write.
I want to have written. I want to have played. I want to have lost weight. I want to have fallen in love. I want to have changed.
It doesn’t work like that. Did you know? Short sentences all the way to the finish line. That’s how it works. Both here and there, wherever there falls on the map.
It is Thursday night and my heart is getting cut up on my toe nails. Oh well, I say, oh, well, the blood still pumps. The eyes still blink and the pain doesn’t block the way the treadmill. Nothing does. I just want everyone to shut up. All the vagaries of their sordid lives and their swelling happiness is dreadfully, onerously, perilously annoying to me right now. Oh, I can’t take Kate Nash right now either. Can she sing? Can she not? I’m leaning toward not and I usually like her, but I heard this cover of Seven Nation Army that she did and it was so failly that it almost hurts my eardrums.
Things I hate: an abridged list.
You. This bra. This silent house. Everyone else getting what they want while I get to wait with a brick of salt. The awkward shape of my guitar while sitting in bed. Corners jetting out everywhere. Old boxes of writing on my bed. Every song in my ITunes. All 3500+ of them. The pain in my back that makes me think of death. My lonely heart not being able to pretend it’s not lonely. The feeling of your throat when you swallow it back. Feeling like a hypocrite for wanting to be cosseted when my friends are in similar agonies and I cannot engage with their emotions. Not being able to engage with anything. Hope trailing away and turning brown with shame. Unfollowings. Pressure that never focuses into a headache. Having let go because I couldn’t close my hands fast enough. Being a step behind. Facebook. Spoons in places they shouldn’t be. Rupert Graves being married with five children. My cold, sick, toe-nail studded heart. All the humor gone and frittered away. The terrible assumptions I make about forever.
Sabra girl, time will cure me.
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