Dinner

there's this house off of 619.
it sits there, it's comfy, you know? just sitting there.
you get some siding, a nice garden, a bit of grass,
then the curve in the road.
my mom would always take that road, and each time, without fail, would tell me the story. the story about how, one day, when a mom, dad, and five-year-old daughter were sitting down for dinner, a car went off that curve, over the bit of grass, over that nice garden,
through the siding, into the table, leaving broken dishes, a brand new five-year-old carcass, and a mess.

i saw the international space station last night. N to NE, a bright blob.
it passed over, quickly and quietly,
billions of tax dollars above the earth, and faded away.
not to get all homer hickham on you, but damn.

what's worse.
six people, in there, above me,
all i ever wanted: the ultimate escape.
instead, a laugh in front of the entire school,
failed calculus tests, and the truth.

the truth?
he likes her, more than anticipated, she doesn't know what to do with a good thing, another she and another him, the pronouns screwing themselves, the human eye can distinguish between one million and ten million different colors at any given time, but i bet i can't.
i can't even do math.
kid, you'll never go into space if you can't get this down.
a B. an F. pulls out by .016 of a point,
and you (i, me, she) didn't even deserve it.
practice makes perfect.

what is this mess?

the truth?
i just wanted to be happy,
and the former occupants of the house off of 619 just wanted a quiet dinner together.

Mighty Morphin Fix

i think that, more than anything else, it was about friendship.
sitting and talking, just talking, for hours. hours on end.
about nothing at all. about everything you've ever needed to say
and never needed to hear.
substance: you wouldn't think it, but these kids have it.
and the worst part about it? the kid doesn't know how beautiful he is.
my fix, gotta have it.

i think that, more than anything else, it's in the denial and the proposal.
what could you possibly want from me at 2 in the morning?
we can sit and talk, just talk, for hours. hours on end.
heat lightning, plans for the greatest summer ever,
heavy air and cold raindrops. i'm home, come over.
windshield wipers on, locked and loaded, falcon to raptor, over.
my fix, gotta have it.

i think that, more than anything else, it's in the lies.
more truth than you can handle, in ambiguity and in metaphors.
in stretched stories and twisted adjectives,
there you have it folks, last chance.
i've captured something here, but you can have it back.
next to the power rangers is the greatest summer i ever had,
but this will be better. we planned it, after all.
summer fucks and fuckups,
my fix, gotta have it.

Decision

reassurance to live on, a vibration on my left thigh: a reminder that i am desired at 3 in the morning. and without that? nothing. what's so great about being a girl? well, let me show you.

what i am doing is wrong, and i haven't cared since.

fractions! figures! issues! what a beautiful atrocity!

besides,

the day was too short to not stop and talk to the dog.

...

“Why do we only fuck when we’re drunk?”

A pause, then a thoughtless, moreover, careless, answer, “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“Oh, don’t give me that. You know exactly what it means,” I answered in a soft, nonchalant voice. The entire dialogue was soft-spoken, the implications too heavy and neither one of us really cared much at all, I am sure. Rather, some sort of heartless conversation to take up space in the night sky. We were both all about the continuous cycle of regret, accepting that that’s what life was all about: one giant regret, or many tiny regrets all piled together, else you wouldn’t have something to toss and turn about every night. “Now finish this fag and shut the hell up,” gently placing the cigarette between his slightly parted lips. His lips gave a bit, the cigarette leaving a minimal impression on the pouty surface. I kept the cigarette at the left side of his mouth, biting my own lip as I concentrated on the matter. Then I rose, purposely swinging my right leg over to momentarily straddle him before standing up. He bent his neck to raise his head and let loose one of those exasperated grunts, but I paid no mind as I continued to rise and then walk away. The grass was cold and wet and splashed as I shoved my feet through it and I didn’t turn around—you can never turn around when you’re the first to go. I learned that from him some time ago, that turning around meant you were weak and that you actually might give a shit.

And I gave a lot of shit. A ton, actually. Two thousand pounds of steaming, hot shit.

The key went into its home and the engine of the Victoria purred, headlights illuminating the shadow of his lanky body, but he didn’t look either. Instead, I saw a puff of smoke rise, the same puff that rose after a mistake in the early morning. I turned the boat around and sailed on my way, the taste of him by way of a cancer stick lingering in my mouth. I gave weight to the pedal and the white dashes on the road became solid lines, the trees dancing in unison with the sounds of cars passing by, a constant whoosh of air. It was nights like these where I wonder how I ever made it home safe, dizzy and blurry and speeding and sad. Really, really fucking sad. Sad outweighing the fuzziness of vision, sadness outweighing the delayed dexterity of my fingers as I tried desperately to find a fitting song on the radio. A song to change everything, a song to remind me of some other mistake, some other starry night, anything but this.

...

mmm i hate titles, but i have chosen the title for my future autobiography:
existentialism is a bitch: the chronicles of steinle.