Video Games

If anyone still reads this blog- hello, friend!

College is the most beautiful perfect amazing thing
to ever happen to me. 
This is heaven and maybe
I'll pull a Max Fischer from Rushmore and
stay here forever.

Seriously though-
so many great people
and fun things to do,
and such interesting classes 
with amazing professors
lecture series
new ideas
UGH
I can't stand how much I love this.
I'm so glad I got out of high school
and into Denison.
This is great.
Perfectly amazing,
I'm the happiest I've ever been,
I think.

I'm exploding with positive energy. 
GAH.

Girl on Fire

I haven't posted here in probably about an eon,
(Tumblr is an addiction),
but I've been kind-of spilling my guts and 
I feel like I just need to full out 
spill it, because I'm going insane.
I like having my thoughts all
orderly and typed up
and who gives a shit who sees them?
(Except you know people I know,
like on Tumblr,
because that might be bad).

But hey,
life is life
and my life got weird.

Friend came home from being away,
friend I kissed
in May.
And we'd been planning to go out clubbing
since July,
through e-mail
because we're dorks and that's how we communicated 
for most of the summer.

So last Friday I was gettin' all jazzed up,
gonna look rad,
gonna see this guy,
gonna club with my best friend.
Sounds great.
Then it got better
and weird.

Clubbing was a total fucking bust,
so lames, nobody was out,
Columbus was deeeeadsville.
But we were all wandering about
and my dear best friend and I decided
to make boy feel uncomfortable by
taking him into a sex shop,
which best friend and I had been in before.

It's like an ice-breaker,
she and I are just crazy and don't even care.
He is obviously kind of uncomfortable
but intrigued.

Then since clubs = lame
we drove and around and sat in a parking
lot and played truth of dare,
(what are we, 12?)
and of course,
best friend is like
"I dare you to kiss her"
so we kissed again.

He tried to slip me some tongue.
Then it was 
"I dare you to take your shirt off"
so he's in my passenger seat shirtless.
cute and pale and lanky
and pretty and I just wanted to touch him.

And so things escalated and he touched my boobs
and then we were like 
oh well we really want to do things to each other.
It's like 1:30 am.
We are driving back to best friend's house
because she has graciously offered us her spare bedroom
for a while.
She is a good wingman.

So I'm all shaky and excited
because like
what is happening we're going to get naked together
say what?

And that does indeed happen
and he is so sweet and so lovely
and I don't even feel self-conscious
and I don't even flinch pulling of his underwear
and woah what is life?
What am I doing at 2 am in my best friend's
spare bedroom naked with the guy I like?

Life happens.
Things happened.
But we're both still virgins so hey.

And now we're like, friends with benefits
because we got all sexy on Facebook chat 
(we are socially inept)
and now we sometimes send inappropriate texts.

So that's the story of how in a weekend
I went from super-virgin
to slutty friend-with-benefits.

It still does not make sense.

Scabbing Over

Frankie sits on the side of the tub, her soft ass resting on the porcelain. Leg up on the rim, she peels white scabs from her shins. As she hums a Russian lullaby David walks in, carrying an unfolded towel, and he watches her movements without sound. Frankie drips bath water onto the tile and David lays down his towel to catch it. He sits down cross-legged, criss-cross applesauce like babies are told, and leans his head against the cold tub wall. His underwear slide down his waist in the back and he doesn’t bother to pull them up and cover up his butt, because Frankie has seen it before. He pulls his gangling legs up to his chest and rests his chin on his knobbly knees and Frankie is still humming a lullaby older than the Romanovs in a language neither one of them can speak. She is done picking off her watery scabs though, and has moved on to rubbing the raw patches down with hydrogen peroxide from the dark brown bottle, her cotton ball carefully wetted. Her fingers move slowly, like her legs still remain in the thick water of her bath- she lets the liquid sting smoothly into the open wounds.

David doesn’t turn around to see Frankie’s face, and even if he did, there would be only her mess of curly black hair, glistening wet and looking like an angry cat in the rain. David only sits by the tub and wiggles his toes intermittently, he likes his feet, considers them the best part of his body. Frankie laughs at him for this, and hates when he wears flip-flops out of the house, saying they make him look like one of those douche-bag kind of guys. But he still loves Frankie and knows she probably still loves him too, even if he does wear ugly sandals in the summer. She’s stopped with her ancient song and is now trying to whistle something that sounds to David like it might Johnny Cash, but he isn’t sure and doesn’t ask. Frankie’s scabs lie in a shriveled pile in the tub with the remains of her bubble bath soap and a wet washcloth. She is twisting the cap shut on the brown bottle and throwing her cotton ball away.

Frankie peels herself off the tub’s edge and puts her feet down on the rug, bending over to rinse her dead skin down the drain. She rings out the washcloth on David’s head and giggles. He looks up and sees Frankie’s legs, strong and tan and bleeding down the shins. A little red river empties itself onto the blue rug and David frowns. “Why do you do that?”

His voice is quiet and rusty from misuse.

Frankie turns away and plugs up the bathtub and lets the hot water run fast and angry. David holds in a sigh and wonders if he should eat the last piece of raspberry pie for lunch. It’s too late for that because Frankie ate it early in the morning, with her robe falling off her shoulder, standing in front of the fridge drinking milk from the paper carton.

She pulls David up and sticks her fingers in his waistband and yanks. He stands in front of his live-in girlfriend naked and nothing makes sense for a moment and a half. While Frankie pulls him down into the big tub with her, David knows that he will be with this strange dark-haired woman forever. The water quickly tinges pink- David wonders if this beautiful woman is crazy. They sit facing each other in the scorching water and Frankie holds onto her knees.

“But Frankie, why do you do that?” David spikes up his wet hair and frowns. It’s a Monday afternoon and he begins to feel guilty about not going to work. Frankie turns herself in the tub, with some effort, so she sits nestled in front of David. He can see her shins bleeding better at this angle.

“Because it makes me feel good, Davie. It’s simple, honey. If something makes you feel better, you oughta do it and I do that because it makes me feel better.” She says this evenly, and not with an ounce of remorse or caution. A well-rehearsed woman, and David knows that.

But her answer offends something inside of him and he wonders why he will be with Frankie forever because his bones say this is so. He will live with a woman who picks off scabs for fun and lets herself bleed in the tub. Who kicks him in her sleep and leaves bruises. Who hates his sandals. Suddenly this doesn’t seem like so much fun to him and he pulls himself from the water and stomps off dripping wet.

The cold air on his skin as he travels down the hall chills him, especially with the A/C on full blast. Frankie sits silently in the tub, no tunes emitting from her little mouth. No scabs left to pick. David gets back in the rumpled bed and pulls the covers around and over him like a cocoon. Because she can, he thought bitterly, is that all I have to look forward to? His body makes a wet print on the sheets and he has never done something like this before, it seems childish but he is feeling angry and doesn’t so much notice. He turns himself over so he faces away from the door, through which he can see Frankie’s back. Milky white and smooth, he doesn’t want to she it now, only sees her bloody shins all marked up from what? Only herself. David wishes it was from soccer maybe, or she fell on a carpet and got rug-burn. But now it’s only from her deft fingers worming across her rough skin.

In this tiny apartment they live with a cat named Cesar, and he jumps onto the bed and paws at David’s cocoon, wanting to come inside and press his soft body against David’s wet one. David shoves the cat off the bed and begins to cry. He stifles the sound, but hot tears leave salt slicks down his cheeks. Why is he so dumb? He wants to know the answers to things, to real, important matters, like why his girlfriend needs to hurt herself to feel good, and why he is naked at 2pm on a Monday in June. Why he pushed his pretty cat away. David is hurt and naked and small.

Frankie sits in the tub, but she’s already drained it. She knows David is in the bedroom, cool and dark, crying under the sheets. She heard a noise like rain and skittering mice and knew. She knows it hurts him to see her shins all marked up and bloody. But she can’t help it, her fingers know what to do and if she doesn’t take the scabs off all, all wet and soft, there will be scars and she can’t have that. She stands up and takes David’s towel off the ground and dries herself meticulously, slowly, silently. She waits to hear David sniffle. It doesn’t come.

He’s fallen asleep under the blankets in a fit of anguish. He thinks it best that he not wake up. He thinks, maybe if he goes away, Frankie won’t pick and pick anymore. He thinks, I will just take a nap instead.

Pink and soft, Frankie walks into the little kitchen and stands in front of the fridge. She pulls out leftover pizza and eats a slice cold and feeds the cat some kibble. The fridge stands open, breathing out its cold chest into the apartment. She takes out a glass of soda and goes into the dark bedroom with the pizza, leaving the fridge gaping. Her shins still bleed a little as she sits down on the bed and rubs David’s back through the blankets.

David wakes up from the touch, but stays still, doesn’t open his eyes, won’t alter his breathing. He isn’t awake, not now. Not here as Frankie stains the sheets for the thousandth time with her leg-blood. He isn’t here, not here at all. He hears the rustle of the pizza box, Frankie’s chewing and new humming.

But he isn’t here, no, David is up on the roof, out over the city, somewhere in the air for Frankie to breathe. But so much so that she doesn’t notice, won’t see him in her breath, and maybe she won’t pick her scabs.

Maybe it’s David’s fault.

Maybe it’s nobody’s fault at all.

Maybe he’ll blame some god for Frankie’s strange behavior.

Maybe he was wrong about being with her forever.

Frankie eats her third little square of mushroom pizza and lies down as the big spoon to David and his blanket cocoon. He feels her warmth against his back and hears her whisper: “please forgive me”.

But David isn’t here, he is a bird with grey wings and birds don’t make people hurt themselves. He is a flower with brilliant petals, and those make everyone happy. David isn’t a gangling man with pale arms and faded t-shirts who makes people sad and sleepy. David won’t be that anymore. Frankie falls asleep humming go tell it on the mountain.

David yawns and hears Cesar jump into bed and lie down at Frankie’s side. The little family is in the big bed and David cries again but softer and shorter. He is such a prick, he thinks to himself. Frankie loves him even if he’s dangerous to her. Cesar loves him even if he shoves him away. But David, oh David goes and cries.

He moves to get out of bed, covers Frankie with the covers and kisses her milky forehead. He kisses Cesar too, and then pulls on clean underwear and wipes his nose and eyes. It will be okay, to be here forever. It will be okay to love this broken woman.

He wants to cover Frankie’s legs with gauze but holds himself back and lets her sleep and instead, he walks the apartment, closes the fridge door and draws himself a cold bath. 

Dry Season

The wooden steps

leaned and creaked

under my shifting weight.

A cigarette dribbled its

smoke down my fingers,

swirling with chipped

red nail polish.

He stood in the yellowed yard,

white t-shirt clinging

and threadbare

in the humid August evening.

The hum of mosquitos made 

harmony with his 

drafty whistling.

Lifting,

muscles shaped like clay

beneath skin,

falling,

the quicksilver crack

of wood under the ax.

I applauded especially good

chops, the swinging of

the red-handled ax.

His hair falling

like sheafs of summer wheat.

Across the lane

a farmer made his daily walk

through the rows of tall-growing corn.

Snakes sizzled under his feet,

boot-clad and weathered.

A ragged bandana to wipe the

glisten from his brow.

He smelled rain on the earth,

a handful of soil in his palm

said tomorrow.

And the corn would grow taller-

maybe even seven dollars

come fall.

I flicked the spent end of

my cigarette into the dying grass.

A chicken came to peck at it.

its feather ruffled by the 

hot breeze.

Swing

and fall.

Swing and fall.

The rhythm of his ax,

my strong man in the sun.

The farmer's hand lets loose

his soil.

Rain gathered on his lips

and into is throat.

Second-Hand

There were aisles of analog
televisions.
"Rooms"
set up with ratty furniture,
paintings out of doctor's offices,
hung on slatted walls.

An oatmealy chair,
green and trimmed.
An old man's dearest
friend. Sitting under
the harsh fluorescents.

A child wanders along
the linoleum halls,
stacked high with
board games and puzzles
missing pieces,
chipped glassware
and stuffed animals with 
matted fur.

He holds a tattered lion,
limp from his left hand.
His mother picks out
coordinating silverware
and old VHS tape
cartoons to play
on the black-and-white tv.

Her son
loves these outings.
These things
that are new to him,
shiny in his mind,
for him.
He has never seen 
a big toy store.
For Robin,
this is his place.

His mother smiles a wan smile,
her eyes rounded by 
worry. She will take
her boy home
for macaroni and cheese
before pinning 
her name tag to 
her starched white 
uniform.
Robin will fall asleep
without her.
In a second-hand bed
with cheap sheets.

This isn't how anyone 
envisions their life
when asked at 16.
But years later
at 26
here is Robin by her side,
and a dank apartment 
awaiting.

Robin knows no difference
between this life
and his mother's old one.
She just takes his 
small sweaty palm
in her smooth
white hand.

He carries his lion tight to his
chest. Warrior boy
and his beautiful mother,
he, master of the 
glasswares
and king over the porcelain
dolls.

Robin walks beside his mother,
his heart swollen with pride.

Free Jazz Music

I am terrified.
That's it.
Simply put,
terrified
like I didn't know 
I could be.

So many fears,
those nagging,
irrational, stupid thoughts.

You are not good enough.

You are not cool enough.

Why aren't you better?

Why didn't you try harder?

You're such a fucking loser.

Why don't you just stop trying?

Why not just give up and die?

This is my brain, telling
itself terrible things.

Telling itself to stop existing,
stop being such a fuck-up.
I hate myself
and all I am or ever was,
because I am not going to be anything else.

I didn't do well enough.
I didn't get what I wanted,
I didn't succeed
and that isn't ok with me.
It doesn't sit well in my tummy and my bones.

I have to go to college.
But where?

My life is dominated by money
and other people's opinions,
people I love.
I don't know what to do.
I don't even know what I want anymore.
I am not cool enough for New York,
I am not wealthy enough for New York.
My family says no to New York.
They seem to sneer and reject all of my ideas.
They whisper things meant to be inspirational,
but instead fill me with fear
and hatred of myself.

I could go there,
I could go to Denison,
and do things that may not be what I want.
My family would be so happy,
they would like that decision.
They don't want me to go to New York.
It's too expensive.

And I know,
I know I know I know,
and can't even do anything about it,
I'll try so hard
and nothing will happen
they don't like any of my plans.

I am so stupid stupid to think I could do this,
to think it'd end up well
and everyone would be happy.
No one is happy,
and everything sucks.

Everyone worries
but has no idea about what this means to me.
I am so screwed, so scared, 
so totally confused.
Nothing is working,
nothing at all.
I can't decide.

No matter what I pick,
someone will be unhappy,
somehow the choice will be wrong.
I can't do anything right and never have
been able to.
And I just want to stop my life
and live in the basement of my house
without fear.

I am scared of my life,
so scared, it isn't what I want,
it's not going the right way.

I'm going to end up poor
and sad and alone and confused.
I can't have that happen because
I will want to die if that happens
and I don't want to die at all. 

It's college, 
the biggest decision in my life thus far.
I have to pick. ME. ALONE.
And then I'm saddled with being an adult
and all that stuff I don't want to do
like take out loans and be poor and get a job
and this sucks.
It sucks a whole lot,
I fucking hate this.
I'm so scared I can't even function normally.

I had to stay home today,
I didn't have the strength or will to 
see other people,
and I don't want to talk to my parents tonight
I just want to evaporate
or disappear.
I want to be gone,
I don't even care anymore.

Lowell, MA

Gimme a second here to sound like
a total suck-up, brown-noser student, ok?
I know some hardcore, awesome, 
insightful, and amazing teachers
who get a lot of shit.

I follow one on Instagram,
and she is the most amazing
crafter- I told her so,
and today she popped
into my first period class
before the bell rang,
and put the cutest little
pouchy-purse
on desk,
even tied up with
a little blue tulle bow.
With a note inside of it.

She is incredibly sweet,
and she is also a killer
math teacher.

And then I asked another teacher about college
stuff, and what I should do,
and she gave me so much more confidence
in decisions.
She was logical too.
And she's rad.
She is not afraid to tell someone 
off. 
She made me feel a lot better about
what I want to do.

I am so lucky to have 
access to such nice people.
such caring people.
All over my life.