kaylabayla forgot to close our star of david. david, much like my poinsettia, but only not. now that the star is open, the insides spill out. they spill out on the platform of the pulaski stop, onto the orange line tracks, to the loop, to wabash, to fullerton, to the ten dollars from my pocket to buy the vaccines, and there you have it folks, i tried.
story of my life: always trying. and you know what i couldn't stop thinking about today as i rode the bike? i thought: how am i going to protect my daughter from people like you? i suppose you can't. i suppose you can't. i suppose you can't. my mom failed to protect me, i am cursed, i am a curse, i am the curse, and there you have it folks, i tried.
"What came first – the music or the misery? Did I listen to music because I was miserable? Or was I miserable because I listened to music? Do all those records turn you into a melancholy person? People worry about kids playing with guns, and teenagers watching violent videos; we are scared that some sort of culture of violence will take them over. Nobody worries about kids listening to thousands – literally thousands – of songs about broken hearts and rejection and pain and misery and loss. The unhappiest people I know, romantically speaking, are the ones who like pop music the most; and I don’t know whether pop music has caused this unhappiness, but I do know that they’ve been listening to the sad songs longer than they’ve been living the unhappy lives."
--N. Hornby (High Fidelity)
and that's another thing that upsets me beyond reason. you not only own so much of my very being, but so much of what still surrounds me. this movie, that tree, my fucking bedroom for crying out loud, and what's more, my favorite songs. you see? i can't even listen to them now. i am determined, from here on out, to only listen to music that i hate when in the presence of a significant other. that way, when they wake up one morning and decide that they can do better, i will have lost nothing. brilliant! then i can insert the headphones and be at peace once again, and they won't have my words any longer. if it's really all just one big game, then two points for kendall.
It's a sad reality that humans think of every love as their last. That their first love will by some means secure a place in their heart forever - its an even sadder fact that in some regards they truly do. Through all the lies and all the arguments over spilt milk and broken bones, that still they may find themselves so vainly secure within is a fucked up occurrence. By what means did they deserve this right? - Oh yes! It was by my own. Wait...when did this become a story of my life? Oh wait, it has always been so you see. Foolish and blind. I've committed genocide in the name of fucking love. I've turned my back on all that was good and kind to me just to say to myself that i am worth two shits. I've starved myself and bled my pain unto countless fucking pages for the rights of an unwanted citizen. But that is a lie. I did want her - Or at least, I convinced myself that I did. I am such a magnificent liar you see, there is no tender spot to my words that one may find a doubt to their sound. I whisper melodies into my mind as I dream, I inhale their poisoned fumes as I get high off their rotting stench. I fear you see, even today...that every word I speak is a lie, not so much to myself, for I can handle my own deception, but for this deserving resident. You see - she has bled for days ...for years in fact - over people like me. Lairs like me. And still I spit my words like a self proclaimed God. I lie awake at night praying - not to any Deity other then myself - to my own crest - please, please, please do not falter - I want this to be true. I do not want to be the regret, the venom that poisons her heart the further. I do not wish to be the thorn that pierces the flesh of existence like those whores do to me. I am haunted....and so too is this world. Love and after love, recycled, old newspapers - the headlines are always the same. Whose to say the first will be the last, or even the second, third, fourth, fifth, or even the ten-fucking-thousandth? I am weak dammit. I am worn, and I cannot be trusted. I am blind, this is true...however I am not a fucking sage. I do not see my own deceit until its too late. I may have given myself away countless times to those who still seek to torment me with their vile parasitic grasp...but this one is special, I gave everything I had left to her. It wasn't much, that I admit....but it was all I had left to give, and I can never deny that she deserved this right. But I'd hate to see her some day tearing away her flesh in hate because of my lies. what a beautiful thought it would be, that some day I could look into the mirror again and smile at myself instead of hating every gene that composes the filthy flute I see staring back at me. Always hungry, always waiting for its next victim - Waiting for a helpless lamb to become enchanted by it's deceptive song.
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