Thursday, November 26, 2009
Je ne peux pas vous regarder de toute autre manière
Je suis désolé, je ne peux pas vous regarder comme ça. Je ne peux pas vous voyez que ce que vous pensez que vous êtes aujourd'hui. Ce n'est pas facile. Je ne suis pas facile. C'est dur, ça ne va pas cesser d'être dur. les feuilles vont continuer à tomber, et je ne vais pas arrêter d'essayer. i tu es quelque chose ne peut pas ignorer. n'est-ce pas dégoûtant? Je me dégoûte. Je suis désolé si mes paroles sont brisés. J'essaie, ne peut pas vous le dire? J'imagine que non. vous faites ce plus difficile qu'il a à être. vous faites ce plus difficile qu'elle ne devrait l'être. votre balançoires, d'avant en arrière, de gauche à droite. Je suis malade d'entre eux. arrêter de changer vos pensées. Je vais bientôt partir. Je ne vais pas revenir. C'est probablement ce que vous voulez. Je suis très bien avec cela. Je ne vais pas essayer d'être triste, et je crois que je vais réussir. Je serai la moitié de moi-même, il n'y a rien de mal à cela. mais il faut arrêter de jouer avec moi. ma peau est chair, et non en plastique. mes cheveux sont réels, mon cerveau fonctionne, j'ai du sang. Je ne suis pas une poupée. arrêter. qui a été le premier mot que vous m'avez enseigné. "Arrêter" à côté, vous m'avez appris à dire "un oiseau". qui était mon mot préféré. mais je peux me enseigner. Alors, Arrêter, parce que je suis un oiseau. j'ai des ailes. pas vous?
Wednesday, November 18, 2009
we are the ever-living ghost of what once was
i heard about those girls that live like shells of themselves, they move their hollow hearts like hermit crabs, a new casing means a new beginning to an end, and in their season, everything cracks and you fall through the surface of all that sorrow. when you kiss her, it feels like the static in her lips could drain your blood, it feels like she couldn't hate you any more than she does now. when she speaks her tongue splits in two, and she's got two things to say, but she chokes on the decision of what to chose. she gives up in the end cause it hurts to hard to wait.
i get that, yeah, i get that.
i get that, yeah, i get that.
Monday, October 19, 2009
heaven restores you in life
i'm heavy-headed, like a paper fish boiling in 1600 tons of concrete. the swell of our pus-filled lungs are all i have left, and you're drunk: it's 4am, guess where i am?
it's been months since you've been the object of my hands, i don't like how this feels. i don't like writing about you. but here i am, black ripped tights, deja vu, heavy eyes, thin lips. when you met me, i still wore glasses. and when you fell in love with me, i had smashed them in half. and by the time i had left you, i was blind. i never got them replaced. i'm still blind.
all these things i can't forget; the way you write the number one, and 9 pm, i could have filled the plane with my tears and drowned the man beside me, but i didn't because i was too embarrassed to show the world how much i loved you in such close quarters. and every song i played reminded me of the way we had to walk away, if you followed me the police would have taken you, and if i turned and ran back nothing except the practical would have happened. i should have run. instead, i ran too late and in the wrong direction. and every mistake brings me further from the truth. moi non plus.
the way your nose used to fill with black drove me insane, and i was always at it like a tongue to a sore tooth, but i would give my house to get it back. don't forget what i forgot to tell you, please. i'm still worried, i'm still a burden, i'm still confused, i don't think i'll ever stop crumbling in your hands. i wasn't looking for you, but i found you, isn't that how it always works? it's easy to love you now, i promise. at the very same rate, i don't expect you to believe that after all i have done. are you still lonely? me too, but my hands are still red. je pense a toi...
it's been months since you've been the object of my hands, i don't like how this feels. i don't like writing about you. but here i am, black ripped tights, deja vu, heavy eyes, thin lips. when you met me, i still wore glasses. and when you fell in love with me, i had smashed them in half. and by the time i had left you, i was blind. i never got them replaced. i'm still blind.
all these things i can't forget; the way you write the number one, and 9 pm, i could have filled the plane with my tears and drowned the man beside me, but i didn't because i was too embarrassed to show the world how much i loved you in such close quarters. and every song i played reminded me of the way we had to walk away, if you followed me the police would have taken you, and if i turned and ran back nothing except the practical would have happened. i should have run. instead, i ran too late and in the wrong direction. and every mistake brings me further from the truth. moi non plus.
the way your nose used to fill with black drove me insane, and i was always at it like a tongue to a sore tooth, but i would give my house to get it back. don't forget what i forgot to tell you, please. i'm still worried, i'm still a burden, i'm still confused, i don't think i'll ever stop crumbling in your hands. i wasn't looking for you, but i found you, isn't that how it always works? it's easy to love you now, i promise. at the very same rate, i don't expect you to believe that after all i have done. are you still lonely? me too, but my hands are still red. je pense a toi...
Thursday, October 8, 2009
this was an essay response, and you are a monster.
Emma Stephens
Advanced Comp 200
Essay Response – States by Edward Said
Photos of Strangers
A story of three strangers takes discipline, a discipline that requires one to pretend to know them, and be able to tell their imaginary story. For one, She is not a stranger. She is familiar to most women because most women know themselves as Her, in at least one point of their lives. To make matters more complicated, He is not a stranger either because most women meet Him at least once in their lives. If a woman is horribly unlucky, she will meet him many times, and maybe end up stuck with Him for a very long time. This is an imaginary story to mimic the life of one 20-something who is caught in a tide with He and She. Her name is Stranger, and she is the fuel that burns He and She together.
Stranger is not an easy person to love. She is ornery, boring, and bleak. Stranger is not accustomed to dysfunctionality because she does not let herself near it, which makes her boring. He and She, however, have built their lives around it, and while Stranger has just met them, she is already drowning in them slightly. Stranger goes through her life half asleep because she is exhausted from trying to escape people like He and She, but unfortunately for her, they are impossible to escape. Stranger is foolish, and therefore, she is in love with He for all his instability. She knows this, and laughs when she finds them even though this destroys her. She has lived with He long enough to realize that Stranger will pass and will soon be replaced, though this does not give her comfort. She has become so invested in his lies that she finds it impossible to leave him, and this makes her a fool. This is the first way that Stranger and She are alike, and the first way that they differ.
He is a bad person. He lies, deceives, manipulates, and he is unavoidably good-looking. These are traits in He that She and Stranger find the most infuriating, and the most exciting. However, there is nothing they can do about this because one of He’s only talents is lying, and lying well. He lies so well that he makes it okay for these women to become shells of themselves, and accepts that they are half-women because of his lies. He is the man that every mother tells her daughter to avoid, and He is well aware of this. He doesn’t care, mostly because he cares about nothing. He cares very slightly about She, but not at all about Stranger. This is the second way She and Stranger are alike, and the second way they differ. She used to be Stranger, before she invested so much time in He, and if she ever leaves, Stranger will probably become She. This is the tide that binds them, the same tide that will never lessen its pressure around their throats.
This is the kind of story about three non-strangers that never ends. He is the constant, while She and Stranger are the variables. Even if they found the time to go, they would be replaced, and so on and so forth. This is the way it works with men like He, but women like She and Stranger might have a chance, as long as they don’t keep meeting He over and over. But, that is only if they are horribly unlucky or disgustingly insecure. Which, luckily for She and Stranger, they are neither. Three months, or give years, or two weeks down the line, these things might change. But for now, their complexities must remain.
Advanced Comp 200
Essay Response – States by Edward Said
Photos of Strangers
A story of three strangers takes discipline, a discipline that requires one to pretend to know them, and be able to tell their imaginary story. For one, She is not a stranger. She is familiar to most women because most women know themselves as Her, in at least one point of their lives. To make matters more complicated, He is not a stranger either because most women meet Him at least once in their lives. If a woman is horribly unlucky, she will meet him many times, and maybe end up stuck with Him for a very long time. This is an imaginary story to mimic the life of one 20-something who is caught in a tide with He and She. Her name is Stranger, and she is the fuel that burns He and She together.
Stranger is not an easy person to love. She is ornery, boring, and bleak. Stranger is not accustomed to dysfunctionality because she does not let herself near it, which makes her boring. He and She, however, have built their lives around it, and while Stranger has just met them, she is already drowning in them slightly. Stranger goes through her life half asleep because she is exhausted from trying to escape people like He and She, but unfortunately for her, they are impossible to escape. Stranger is foolish, and therefore, she is in love with He for all his instability. She knows this, and laughs when she finds them even though this destroys her. She has lived with He long enough to realize that Stranger will pass and will soon be replaced, though this does not give her comfort. She has become so invested in his lies that she finds it impossible to leave him, and this makes her a fool. This is the first way that Stranger and She are alike, and the first way that they differ.
He is a bad person. He lies, deceives, manipulates, and he is unavoidably good-looking. These are traits in He that She and Stranger find the most infuriating, and the most exciting. However, there is nothing they can do about this because one of He’s only talents is lying, and lying well. He lies so well that he makes it okay for these women to become shells of themselves, and accepts that they are half-women because of his lies. He is the man that every mother tells her daughter to avoid, and He is well aware of this. He doesn’t care, mostly because he cares about nothing. He cares very slightly about She, but not at all about Stranger. This is the second way She and Stranger are alike, and the second way they differ. She used to be Stranger, before she invested so much time in He, and if she ever leaves, Stranger will probably become She. This is the tide that binds them, the same tide that will never lessen its pressure around their throats.
This is the kind of story about three non-strangers that never ends. He is the constant, while She and Stranger are the variables. Even if they found the time to go, they would be replaced, and so on and so forth. This is the way it works with men like He, but women like She and Stranger might have a chance, as long as they don’t keep meeting He over and over. But, that is only if they are horribly unlucky or disgustingly insecure. Which, luckily for She and Stranger, they are neither. Three months, or give years, or two weeks down the line, these things might change. But for now, their complexities must remain.
Wednesday, September 9, 2009
Saturday, July 18, 2009
i'm sorry that i compared you to moldy food.
i mean, it's like, it's like that. yeah, like that. like you fell down when you were 8, and you still have the scar, like some angry monster on your left knee cap. it follows you to your first date, and your senior prom, and it meets a new friend the first time you crash your car. and you almost put your head through the windshield, but instead, you just trip over an old box and it's somehow 50 times worse. it's funny how life works like that, like, 'oh, i just fell 9 feet out of a tree and i laughed when i hit the ground.' but i mean, then you look back 11 years later, and you realize you probably started laughing because you were in shock. but when you're 8, shock doesn't really exist. unless you're horribly unlucky. then shock exists.
i guess that's the way it always goes. i mean, i guess after all of that time trying to slide home it turns out i missed bases 1 through 3. how does someone do that? it takes skill, i guess. it takes focus to be as oblivious as this. it seems like i'm so quick to throw away slightly rotting food, without realizing i can just cut the mold off and it will be fine! but i still throw it away, and THEN i realize i could have saved it. but it's too late, because it's already in the garbage, along with the kitty litter and old coffee beans. that's my life i guess, and those are my relationships. 'give up before you regret it, emma!' i tell myself 'you will get food poisoning if you try to save that bread!' well, as it turns out, i've never gotten food poisoning. but i mean, what's so wrong with food poisoning? you're sick for a day, you're puking everywhere and you want to die, but then it's over. and you go to work the next day feeling more or less normal. isn't that a lot like being left? it is. i've never been left, because i make sure to leave first, but it always feels like i've been left after the fact, mostly because i can't retrieve what i left. either way, i puke for a week, and i can't eat or sleep, but then i'm okay. and i go to work, and i'm okay. i'm really okay.
i mean, there's always that aspect of smelling the food that made you puke and then you feel sick because it reminds you of puking. there's a name for that. anyways, that's kind of like when i smell someone on the street who smells like you and then it reminds me of leaving you, and i feel sick for what i've done. but i guess lucky for me, nobody smells like you. because you wore that really great cologne that they don't sell in America. and i don't think anybody's armpits smell the same as yours. they smelt like that weird Addidas aerosol deodorant mixed with your body odor. i mean, i always told you you smelt bad, but you really didn't. i think i need to get back on topic. i'm lucky because no one smells like you, or looks like you, or walks like you, or sounds like you, or dresses like you. but i find other things to remind me, so i always end up sick. and i think i'm going to be sick for a long time, because i don't wanna stop reminding myself, i think i deserve to feel sick all the time.
i guess that's the way it always goes. i mean, i guess after all of that time trying to slide home it turns out i missed bases 1 through 3. how does someone do that? it takes skill, i guess. it takes focus to be as oblivious as this. it seems like i'm so quick to throw away slightly rotting food, without realizing i can just cut the mold off and it will be fine! but i still throw it away, and THEN i realize i could have saved it. but it's too late, because it's already in the garbage, along with the kitty litter and old coffee beans. that's my life i guess, and those are my relationships. 'give up before you regret it, emma!' i tell myself 'you will get food poisoning if you try to save that bread!' well, as it turns out, i've never gotten food poisoning. but i mean, what's so wrong with food poisoning? you're sick for a day, you're puking everywhere and you want to die, but then it's over. and you go to work the next day feeling more or less normal. isn't that a lot like being left? it is. i've never been left, because i make sure to leave first, but it always feels like i've been left after the fact, mostly because i can't retrieve what i left. either way, i puke for a week, and i can't eat or sleep, but then i'm okay. and i go to work, and i'm okay. i'm really okay.
i mean, there's always that aspect of smelling the food that made you puke and then you feel sick because it reminds you of puking. there's a name for that. anyways, that's kind of like when i smell someone on the street who smells like you and then it reminds me of leaving you, and i feel sick for what i've done. but i guess lucky for me, nobody smells like you. because you wore that really great cologne that they don't sell in America. and i don't think anybody's armpits smell the same as yours. they smelt like that weird Addidas aerosol deodorant mixed with your body odor. i mean, i always told you you smelt bad, but you really didn't. i think i need to get back on topic. i'm lucky because no one smells like you, or looks like you, or walks like you, or sounds like you, or dresses like you. but i find other things to remind me, so i always end up sick. and i think i'm going to be sick for a long time, because i don't wanna stop reminding myself, i think i deserve to feel sick all the time.
Sunday, June 28, 2009
Sunday, March 29, 2009
skeleton
like the silver tea set you got for a wedding gift, you gotta polish me in order for me to shine.
Tuesday, February 17, 2009
i promised.
hey, come back
i missed you up there
way up in your clouded tree.
my body is a mountain range
and we will hike
past the snow, and the streams across my torso
and my knees.
up to the top, which is inside my skull.
if you find it, you can drink,
the fountain of youth sleeps in my mind.
but you must search
struggle
and swim.
it is not easy to love me,
but,
i will make you young again,
i promise.
i missed you up there
way up in your clouded tree.
my body is a mountain range
and we will hike
past the snow, and the streams across my torso
and my knees.
up to the top, which is inside my skull.
if you find it, you can drink,
the fountain of youth sleeps in my mind.
but you must search
struggle
and swim.
it is not easy to love me,
but,
i will make you young again,
i promise.
i don't lie, not when it matters.
Saturday, January 31, 2009
downtown looks like don't own
Tuesday, January 20, 2009
even i think you're blinded by conceit.
Sounds from the party shear away
into echoes. Feet stop and
take root in the sand.
It’s easy to love you now,
my mind’s stopped changing.
Boats nudge each other
like sleeping lovers
with each slight wave,
doing their slow dance
as lights across the river
melt and gutter out.
When the wind has exhausted itself
in the pre-dawn, I bury the fire, alone,
and I hear another voice gliding,
dipping its wings in the water
on its way to me.
Finishing my wine
I walk into the river,
the sound of bells in my ears,
and make my way to you.
Newcastle, 1993
Thursday, January 8, 2009
three kinds of yes.
the tears have dried, the anger has intensified, the self worth magnified.
as my revolution begins.
as my revolution begins.
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