la vie boheme

not a word to write anymore

.

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^my cat has more to say than i do

live and breathe and die defeated

fits of forgiveness for every sunken son and daughter. the lions paisley tongue dealt nine lashes. the child fit into a barren hand, the smooth palms of a gypsy mother whose liquorish lips peel for every day we've lived without giving proper things proper names. bird, fish, human mother, wolf breath, baby tail, rainfaced i gave up. my lions paisley tongue wrapping around the words we would die to change " mother, daughter, dead hand, evil man."

that intense nonsense we spewed, i miss it, or you in general
not that you that sits in my living room while i whine about everything
but the you that shared a corner of my mind

he said" you're a special girl, and i want to make promises to you, but i dont. someday when i am in the position to make promises to you, i will, and i'll only break a couple. i promise."

five things that cause anxiety attacks daily:

• Pasta rice and salad MUST be eaten from a bowl
• 3 full ice cubes to a drink- they cannot be connected or chipped. crushed ice is fine. Novelty shaped ice cubes are a definite no.
• Sandwiches cant be opened once they are put together
• If i am not cooking, ingredients cannot be seen or discussed, same goes with making drinks
• Lights have to be turned out, turned back on long enough to inspect the room then turned off again

writers block in the form of a letter to myself

fuck its hard to form a clear sentence or thought or anything for that matter
i'm just murky water lying flat like a puddle
why?
i still smoke and drink and swear at all the things i cant control
like the newness of our wedding shoes
or my neurotic tendency to pick out something to hate instead of closing my eyes and putting spoon to mouth
well..why do i feel less like theres something spun tight in my head when its still all the same?
a suicide, a holiday spent with my mothers arm suspended over a blender
wouldnt that be something to say thirty times over, always eloquently spoken with the tenderness of lovers at an altar?
no
and so what?
she tried, she failed, told me the other crazies in the hospital were indigents before she said she needed more shampoo a brow pencil and her sketch book while the nurse said something about sedatives and made her hang up
i thought maybe i needed my own devils to make my mind soft, make the words more malleable, maybe turn such a humorous selfish woman into some sort of painful death eaten fragment of a person.
but no
and so what?
why does something insane and hard to ignore have to sound romantic or like i really was sad or hurt.
i went out, got naked, had a drink
made eyes at the bartender, threw a fit, missed a few trains
hailed a cab, slipped on an ice patch, fucked in a foreign bed whose only comfort was seeing the knife beneath the mattress ( we all know its always there but rarely see them.)
my devils stay planted firm and laugh at my now sad attempts at writing anything more than my name and the date.
my name is kristen and i may have forgotten time logic and how to spell my mothers name.

wake up every morning to the same damn smile
burn the coffee and climb back in bed