returntosendher

www.roomforthinking.blogspot.com

I was seventy six years in
asking “how many till I’m out?”
I was a burnt bulb, my pieces
rattling at any,
all movement.

 
The clang of champagne glasses,
the crash of every romance.
Never the right words,
never the right dress.
 

It was August 12th,
2:34 AM,
He was watching me count
wrinkles, stretch marks, blemishes.
I was leaning over a silvery mirror,
my tears catching in those creases.

“Girl, why are you crying?”
--“Not girl, there is a clock inside of me.”

 
Sweeping my grey hair back,
he whispered about adventures into my seashell ears,
he played in the salty streams on my delicate face.
Absorbing the salt, he savored me, he saved me.

 
From there,
We counted only stars,
No more growing up,
Only living.

--Dreaming, 
half way between sleeping and awake.  

if i was to die today i get the feeling you wouldn't care, you wouldn't cry.

I want to go ice skating, bowling, window shopping.
I want to dance, and feel healthy, and feel pretty.
I want to be a spoon, a crush, a pair of lips.
I want to feel more, record more, absorb more.

I want to make love and feel love and trust love.
I want to see it all, be it all, live it all.

creeping

so close to the shore and
I am yanked back.
Ocean over my head,
dark navy waves.

Tasting the salt in my mouth,
my insides are soaking,
my stomach in a sailor's knot.

I hear you on your typewriter in the mornings.
Type
Type
Typing
your oversize ideas,
trying to sort them in your enormous, sweet, brain.

It's early, no sun yet.

The lamp hangs over your head,
letting soft yellow light
to crawl across your broad naked shoulders.

We fall in love,
in litle light.
We fall in love,
with little light.

It sways like a gentle little finger
above the melted yellow wax,
Lingering, lighting up our dark skies.

i think i was born to dwell in this room:






where are you going to sleep tonight? who is going to dream next to you?
what thoughts will you fall asleep wth? what side of the bed will remain cold?

The celebration of the new year allows me to reflect on the past year and make resolutions for the future. More than this, the idea of a new year gives me a blueprint and hope. I wish for it to do the same to you, allowing you to count your blessings, slosh around in your messes, and sweep with a broom the excess you don't need. Everything that happened this year, sour or sweet, was meant to happen. Like a fine piece of marble, slowly you are being transformed, one cut at a time, into a beautiful sculpture. Some humans are already there, and people sit in adornment at their beauty, but this beauty comes with age and reason and wisdom. Just wait your turn. It takes years to create a masterpiece, don't rush it. I know, I need some more shaping too, I can't solve the problems of the world just yet.

2007 erupted, for me, in Danica Hawkin's basement. I was fretting over endings, playing with a flame, sleeping with scary thoughts I shouldn't have been near. But I was okay that night, I can remember laughing until my sides hurt, enveloping love. Chris was there, with Danica, and I felt happy for that. I lied next to Jarrett late into the night, hearing him whisper over the phone, letting my head fall in and out of sleep. I was comfortable. I rushed to school two days later. And my friendship with you lasted like a short spring blossom. Now, we fear each other's deep glare in public places. Last year at positive youth fest, we met each other in the street, this year we hid in the dark crevices of our new friend's arms. Time played its part, I suppose. I only miss you when it is raining. No matter, My past year was filled with you, and that is what is important. You smoothed the rough edges on my marble fingers, allowing my reach to deepen.

You called on Saturday and You called on Sunday. It felt sort of like the world was making sense of me. Trying to pull at all my strings, trying to get me to stand up and face the reality that my body is still inhaling and exhaling. I haven't thought about that routine in a while, now it is just human. Before, I had to remember, I had to tie a red string around my smallest finger. That was 2007, this is 2008. I feel more like a brain and less like a teenager, and I am enjoying the fresh air of age. I want to see You, I want to impress you with this new shiny part of me.
I don't feel very dark anymore, I feel less attached, more alive. No matter the pattern this new new year takes, I want to keep thinking with my beautiful fucked up head, I want to keep making you happy.

Thank you, though, for just being a face on a train to somewhere.

I have everything a person could want.
I have a family, even if they are sarcastic and angry a lot of the time, I have one. I have a house and a bedroom and two pillows with floral prints. i have multiple sweaters and scarves and a new pink hat. I have my own telephone and a car I can use whenever I want. I have a white mailbox and stamps I didn't have to purchase. They have silly American flags on them, but my parents don't send letters, they only send bills. I have electricity and running water. I have green tea in my pantry. I have many assorted types of whole grain cereal. I have perfect sweet oranges in my fridge. Their peels stain my fingernails a terrific orange. I have a computer that is technically the family's, but I'm the only person that uses it. I search for answers on the internet, I save them in Music and Picture files. I have a fancy camera. I have a beautiful in every way best friend. I have friends, who feed me balance. I have a boyfriend, who makes me feel silly and happy. I have strangers who smile at me in the hallways, compliment me without knowing me. I have numbers, letters, nouns, verbs, adjectives. I own a movie I watch when I feel empty, I own a movie I watch when I feel lost. I listen to music that rocks me in it's arms, music that acts as a dance partner, music that sings along with me. I have no diseases. I have overcome habits on my own. I have faith in something or someone larger than myself. I have hope. I have a voice and a face and two hands. I am a solid organism.



I think I'll go kiss my mother goodnight.

a small, inciting piece of my future sat frozen and lifeless in my empty mailbox today.

Imagine: It's 8:15, Thursday night, mid August, and the summer sun is finally shying away, allowing the breeze to kiss your bare shoulders. One of your favorite local bands, Georgie James, is setting up their instruments on the historic red stage of Fort Reno Park, in Northeast Washington DC. You return here, every Monday and Thursday during the summer, for free concerts, picnic food, and the grass beneath your bare feet. You don't know all of the history, but it's said to be the site of the only Civil War battle in the District.
As you untie your worn Converse, a friend spreads a blanket over the vibrant green grass. You look back to the stage, up at Laura Burhenn, the lead singer and songwriter of Georgie James, as she leans over her keyboard, plugging in various colored wires. Her champagne blonde hair falls just right, even with beads of perspiration hiding on her brow behind her thin bangs. Yellow polka dots spread over her blue dress and move as she moves. The lead guitarist, John Davis, stands on the opposite side of the stage, but with the same bright blonde hair on his head. You correct anyone who confuses them for siblings. You're well versed in the history of all DC bands, especially the ones that passed over this stage. You know that John Davis once played the drums for Q and Not U. You were here for their final show four years ago.
You skim the crowd, noticing familiar faces. You're skin is covered in perspiration tonight; you're looking forward to the set. Maybe you're thinking about how hip you look, in that sweaty t-shirt and cutoffs. Quite possibly you're feeling a slight grudge against Georgie James creep up inside of you. Resentment, not of their good looks, but because you miss the experimental sounds of Q and Not U from summers past. Maybe you're just realizing you can actually see the definition of a stranger's calves through his tight black jeans, contemplating the possibility of his sewing himself into them.
But wonder if you aren't like all the other scenesters? If even among this crowd of piercings and multicolored hair and passionate individualism, you stand out just a little bit?
Pan over to where I'm standing, front row, off to the right side, peer inside my mind, past my heavy bangs. At this moment, in all of the dying heat and hipness, at this very second, I'm gazing at Laura's shadow as it lies across the peeling red paint, wishing to fill my camera’s frame entirely. Her bright yellow shoes also need to be captured, and I move slowly, stealthily, stealing like a bandit the memory and composition of that yellow on red. That's how I've become. Not oblivious to the emotion and enthusiasm around me, but more worried about how I can capture every thing than being a part of it first hand. I stare at strangers without worry of eye contact because of the heavy camera between us. Even when they look my way, I click the shutter. I want to get a hold of every moment and expression.
I want to remember the friendships of differing colored wires, the greasy hair of the boy beside me, and the distinct yellow glow of the park lights. Pocketing this golden sheen and the way it blankets a stranger’s shoulders. Stealing the purple darks under my friend's eyes. Grabbing a silhouette of a teenage romance under the oak tree. Everything screams to me, everything must be saved. And I want it all, and I want it to be mine. I see values of light and color everywhere I look. I wonder how to capture bliss, to ensnare dignity, what lighting is available. And so that's me, here tonight, different amongst all the individualists because I'm looking at the Roman-nosed profile of the boy behind me, at the jet black hair of the girl in front of me, at the way Laura's mouth sweetly curves into a perfect O when she hits a high note. I'm wondering, how would I capture this song? Where can I find a composition that reflects now, the bitterness of the end of summer, a fresh beginning, an unexplored season? Bright lights with fringed shadows? A pale face against a heavy velvet night sky? Or something else all together? This is how I'm thinking, tonight. This is how I see the world, always.

if i can do day one, i can do day ten.

you may have noticed that the drapes are pulled. you can see straight shot into my bedroom, and you're watching me with vulgar curiosity. you're watching me fall asleep. you're watching me change tapes. you're watching me make my to-do lists, cry into the covers. you're looking past my dirty bangs, staring right into my wormy brain, reading all the blue lines in my notebook.

why?

i'm writing out loud because maybe, maybe it will echo inside of you and you or you.
i'm writing out loud to make myself a truth and not a secret.

so read it, hide your eyes at times, cover your sweet round face. maybe, when you lift your eyes, you'll find yourself found. or maybe, you'll just find yourself beside me, talking about nothing and everything, all at once.

but you don't have to search for me,
i'm right here, always.

there are certain details that switch on the memory machine in my head. it plays sort of like the old record player in my basement. some of the noise fragmented, some of the memory left behind somewhere.
songs, specific tracks, jump the wires connected to the nostalgic wave system in my head. i realized this, most distinctively, this past week. Iron and Wine's "faded from the winter" played for the first time in many months. I had tried to bottle a lot of my favorite songs from last year, in an attempt to keep them new, never old. i had hoped this would have renewed their feeling and help keep them from aging in my head.
as the intro began on Wednesday i could remember my nights with the shakes, sobbing, quietly with that song. echoing the lyrics back to myself and deep breathing the melody.

i can't remember why i was crying last year on any specific accounts, and why the song made me sad on those nights. i can't exactly remember whether i was crying over my broken heart -or yours.

But as I was listening, even though Wednesday was a decently happy day, (as they are more and more frequently)i cried into my pink floral sheets. It was as if the salt from those many past tears rose out of the fibers and burnt my fragile eyes. The red spider webs in my eyes connected that past to my present.

but i like that song; i think i always will.


sometimes, in the most twisted way, i like feeling sad, i feel satisfied remembering sad details. will told me something that he learned in psych class that night. something about sad times and how all they do is trigger more sad memories. and how i should just remember happy times to trigger happy memories.
Driving around on Friday with Kacie and Nico, i was persistently trying to think of good memories in my head. but so many of them ran false characters, people who have turned away from me, or people i have let go. those happy moments are now stained.

i realize i do this all purposefully and skillfully. maybe it is to counteract a good day, to beat myself down a bit, to inflict a psychological pain, to make myself feel reality's pull.
maybe I'm not satisfied with just feeling okay.

somewhere in this wormy brain of mine there is a bright and obvious cord unplugged, hanging down the wall, waiting for the day someone sees it and plugs it back in.

i'm feeling so many pulls, from all my edges, stretching out my center. maybe i'll snap, maybe i'll stretch forever. but, this is a good stretch. the kind you make when you roll over to face sunshine in the morning. when your body pulls itself in opposite directions and you feel all your parts fall into their proper places.

i need to start taking more pictures, stop being so afraid that people will size me up, and just have the confidence to click. i don't know why i get so nervous taking pictures in public. it makes my insides boil. i wish i was more brave, i wish i took more chances, went on more adventures. (hey, william, lets go, now, okay?) my memory is terrible, i want all of these memories on film. i want to remember you and everyone and everything.

so, to do list:

-take the pictures you want to take
-take pictures everywhere
-stop being a pansy
-control
-buy ruby red chai tea
-figure out ted leo ticketz
-find red beret
-rinse, repeat.

i've left so many people behind;
scattered on some abandoned battle field.



i miss you.

(

and that is okay with me.)



imagine a dry sponge, with the edges curling towards you, reaching from every dry spot in it's entirety.
that is how i feel. relieved of all the anxieties and stresses, and reaching, reaching for all the life around me.

i want to soak everything up, i want to feel it all like a new born does, a baby yet to have creases in their knuckles.

i'm not sad,
or empty.

but full,
and content.
so very content.




[
tomorrow night i'm seeing a nice boy sing



with an even nicer boy alongside.
]

i went late, left early.
i thought maybe i was falling into it again, falling into unknown territory. somewhere i don't own, somewhere i can't pick the weeds from.
but this time i'm okay. i feel really okay, other than the muscle cramping.
i just needed to leave early, arrive late;
just to drive alone listening to that regina song about being so goddamn young;
the seatbelt secured only because the feeling in my chest, the foreign future, pumping blood through nerves with hope.



"behind this door, molly, things are right."



(and thats whats up.)