Day 1 of Forever

Tags

alcoholic, butterflies, diary, forever, journal, love, nerves, optimism, sex, sober, writing

With so many thoughts free-falling within my mind, it’s surprising that not a single one can be caught and pinpointed.  My body moves in seeming unison, the involuntary mobile end of a marionette, under full control of such uncontrolled thoughts.  Butterflies form within my stomach, rising and fluttering simultaneously with the heavy beats within my heart, and I feel tears well up in my eyes and a slight smile attempt its way upon my face.

My soft eyes meeting the gaze of yours, I am overwhelmed, and all the scurrying within me only grows greater and more out of control.  My hands begin to feel clammy and to tremble lightly as my nerves increase; suddenly my constant desire to stroke your entire body dissipates as I imagine the sweat of my palms caught in your chest hair and my voice quivering with each outburst during intimacy.

A smile growing across your face now, I look away, unable to hide any of the fluttering, pumping, trembling from within.  I remain unable to control my body, and I can’t run from the awkward situation I have placed myself in – I regain eye contact, and force a coy smile.  I am taken aback as your smile slowly becomes toothless, uncertain of whether our interaction is taking steps forward or backward.

As your lips abruptly meet mine, I am shocked by the natural ease of our first kiss, and I am unable to reach satiation; we pull apart and I immediately wish I could live forever with my lips upon yours. Your hands graze my lower back and I realize I am no longer trembling.  Our eyes lock once more, and the energy is more palpable than before.  Growing larger now, my smile finally gleams with sincerity, and the butterflies in my stomach cease in their new confidence; the strings of the marionette that I have become are suddenly entangled within the fingers of the man before me – the man that I have already fallen in love with.

heroin > love

Tags

abandonment, alcoholic, fear, heroin, high, love, relapse, sex, sober

With each breath, I am forcing back the thoughts that so desperately wish to escape.  Glancing at your fingers, I watch as they slip their way into my own, and I can’t help but wonder when the last time was that you fingered a syringe instead of my hands.  I can no longer maintain my façade and can no longer feign belief in your lies. As my mind races with the forever-escalating fear of abandonment, I close my eyes and purse my lips, allowing the tangible reality of this moment take over.

The panic within me is nearly boiling over, and I breathe in deeper.  Running my hands along your now naked flesh, my fingertips tracing your protruding veins, I am unable to enjoy the closeness of our bodies.  I dig my nails into your back, pressing your chest as tightly as possible into my own, hoping to disguise my soft sobs as the absent-minded moaning I know you seek.

My fears suddenly surface entirely, this boiling-over now unstoppable as I question even the honesty of your actions within this moment.  My heart weighs heavy as I become uncertain of the look in your eyes, staring down at my own with each and every thrust; is it contentment with me or a simple pleasure from your high?

Tears finally burst free and the moment between us is ruined.  With you able to rise from beside me so much sooner than you should have expected, I wonder how soon you’ll need another fix.  I stare into your now wide, cognizant eyes, and I wait for you to make a decision; I wait for you to choose your drugs over me – over love.

Rising from the bed, you redress and light a cigarette, leaving me with nothing more than a half-smile and a kiss upon my forehead.  Watching the cigarette slowly burn down with each and every puff of smoke you release from your lungs, I wonder what my next move is.  As I lay within the walls of your apartment, I continue to wait for abandonment.  Finally reaching the filter, you stomp out the embers at the end of the cigarette and slip into the bathroom.

Locking the door behind you, I can only hear what the silence of the apartment allows.  I remain still, focusing on the rummaging through drawers, the sliding of items on medicine cabinet shelves, all leading up to dead silence and the unknown from within the four walls you have enclosed yourself in.  Suddenly my fear of abandonment begins to dissipate as I realize the unrealistic belief that you were ever mine in the first place; it has always been heroin, not I, that holds entire possession of your hands, your mind, your heart.

suicide

Tags

afraid, alive, boyfriend, crying, freedom, kiss, love, noose, normalcy, suicide

I stand with a knife in my hand as tears stream down my face, but it’s only to cut your body down from the ceiling.  Scared, I place my head into my hands and let my tears flow, wet mascara suddenly staining the ends of my sleeves.  I close my eyes as tight as I can, and try to choke back the tears from flowing any harder.  My heart beats heavy in my chest, feeling too full to reside where it does.  Your face matching mine, puddles of tears gather along the dingy carpet of our run-down apartment, but I know yours don’t fall for the same reason as mine.

I can feel the hands of the afterlife lingering, still reaching out – trying to grasp your flesh.  With my eyes refusing to let their gaze move away from you as you sit on the living room floor, I feel the presence of death dissipate, and suddenly this moment feels so distant.  I finger the strands of the rope that I continue to hold, ignoring the loop on the end – forgetting it is a noose that I keep my grasp tight around.

My tears have desisted, as have yours, and I lean down to kiss you, needing to feel the warmth flow back into my mouth from yours.  Lacking the cold touch that death would have placed upon your lips, normalcy begins to flood back into the room, but quickly jolts to a stop as I realize the fear still pumping through my veins.  Inadequacy, confusion, and sorrow all begin to overcome me, but as the love you so often show in your eyes begins to surface, I know there are no answers to find.

Sitting across from you now, I grasp your hands within mine, never wanting to let them go, fearful that they will leave mine forever if I do.  A montage of suicide attempts makes its way into my mind, and every part of me quivers, unsure if this moment is the last scene of the composite.  I begin to feel fearful once again.  Squeezing your hands tighter, I lean in to kiss you once more, taking advantage of my remaining chances to do such.

Feeling your hands tighten their grip around mine, and your lips pucker against mine as I kiss you, I realize that everything that we share was nearly stolen from us.  The look in your eyes remaining so content and so full of adoration, I lose all worry – even if just for a moment – and I allow my mind to free itself, and my heart to beat in unison with yours.

sobriety

Tags

alcoholic, boredom, cocktails, crying, drunk, sober

Each day nearing its end, few things rise to the forefront of my mind. Halfway through the month, halfway through the semester, I’m left to ponder all but crucial things. “I need a drink,” I think out loud, nothing more prevalent attracting my attention.

Laying on the couch, I flip through People magazine, seeing advertisement after advertisement, presenting me with the beautification and simplification of cosmopolitans and dirty martinis. I get up and grab my coat.

Skipping down the stairs, I make my descent to my car and furthermore to the realization that the drinks in the magazine are further from my reach than I thought. Burying my head in my hands, I can’t understand why I’m suddenly in tears.

“I’m sorry,” is all that ever emanates from my flashing cell phone screen. I wonder if that’s the same response I would get if I sent pictures of myself in this state, pictures of cartoon cocktails surrounding my somber image. “You’ll be fine,” is the only response ever told directly to my face; my façade is strong. I need a drink more than I did just five minutes earlier.

Hiccuping from crying so hard, the tears stream faster and warmer, and I’m at a loss for both words and actions. I get out of my car slowly, not wanting to make my ascent into my dry apartment – not sure if I physically can. There is no rationalizing my behavior, no bettering my actions, and no normalizing my drinking habits.

“Come out just for one,” flashes three or four times as every one of my best friends tells me to meet them at the bar tonight. Best may be a loose term. One is absolutely a loose term. “No one ever has ‘just one,’” I think to myself. “Or maybe some people do…” I begin to wonder if I can conquer that.

I flash back to the other night, waiting for my ride, I decided to have “one beer.” Eight minutes later, I took two shots and chugged two IPAs. A montage flashed through my mind – a montage of toilet bowls, regrettable text messages, and one night stands. I finally get inside my apartment, and lock the door behind me.

Staring aimlessly into the fridge, I grab a sprite and crack it open. Chugging it, I do my best to fill my mind with every thought I need. “Vodka/soda! Gin and tonic!” My mind races as I try to taste the liquor on my tongue, but as I pull the can away from my lips, I realize the tears have not dissipated, and the sprite making its way down my throat tastes like nothing more than the soda my mother used give me when I had the flu.

Montage still flashing through my mind, suddenly seeming quite distant, I climb into bed, knees to my chest, and I sniffle back more tears. “You’ll be okay,” I promise myself.

My heart

Tags

cynicism, eyes, happiness, heart, loneliness, love, security, smile

With no room left on the cuffs of my shirt, my heart places itself
neatly on the light brown irises of my eyes, flashing my weakened
spirit at anyone brave enough to catch my gaze.  Head down, I focus on
my teeth, trying to prepare a smile behind my pursed lips.  My mind is
consumed by the reality of life, running deeper than the beauty I am
able to present – running deeper than the tears that stream down my
face each night.  Weakened, disheartened, and restless, cynicism flows
through every vein in my body and every breath within my lungs.  Tears
welling up beneath the heart I wear so appropriately on my eyes, I
finally look into the eyes that will not look away from me; seeing a
reflection of my own weariness, my smile finally feels sincere.
Looking away, I attempt to push my anguish deep into my gut – to keep
my vulnerability from shining through.  Eyes remaining on me, I am
torn between a feeling of weakness and a feeling of security.
Returning the gaze once again, my smile remains just as sincere, but
grows to show more teeth.  Taking my hand in his, the loneliness
within my heart dissipates, as does the welling of tears within my
eyes.  My heart is able to descend back to its home, right above my
lungs that have released their last sighs of negativity.

The Syringe

Tags

drugs, heroin, junkie, love, sober, syringe

Hearing a rapid, repetitive beat, I try and calm my breath and figure out where it’s coming from. With a hard, dry swallow, I try and focus on slowing my heartbeat and measuring its rhythm, but all I am able to hear is the Hollywood-fabricated sound of the readying of a syringe full of drugs. My heartbeat quickens again as the motion of time slows. Tap… tap… tap… The syringe in my hand is empty. No one has any drugs, yet the tapping against one’s palm remains fluttering behind my closed eyes. My heartbeat quickens yet again.

The tapping of the syringe is full of my husband’s drugs – tapping against his palm, circa 2012. I don’t even know what drugs look like. Not in real life, anyway. My eyes remain closed as I try and steady my body, but I feel myself sway. A hand suddenly places itself on my thigh, and I simply catch my breath that I was unaware of holding. The hand that braces my body no longer has heroin flowing through the veins it embodies, but as its fingertips press into my thigh, I see them press the plunger of the syringe down slowly, and I jump, my eyes snapping open. I want to throw the syringe into the roaring fire he lit just moments ago, to watch it melt, to watch the junkie that it represents become nothing more than a few drips of plastic on an old, rusted, fireplace grate, but I cannot.

I cannot let this escape my grasp – the symbol of recklessness and danger, the symbol of overdose and death, the symbol of me losing all that I love – because what if with it, escapes everything I am trying to prevent from slipping away from me.

poem #1

Tags

afterparty, butterflies, cocaine, love, marijuana, party

I’ve never even attempted to write poetry before in my life, but my friend recently told me about the idea of releasing your creativity in mediums you’re not entirely comfortable with.  With too much laziness to clean up a paint mess, and my hand too tired to draw from taking notes at school all day, here’s a pretty random poem about a guy i havent seen in months, but that facebook still thinks i “may know.”

 

 

A brick in so many particles,

Torn apart by a plastic card by which without it, would not exist.

Powder all over my body, lacking the shimmer I once thought it would need;

To get boys’ attention, powder doesn’t need to shine.

The red nose of a lush mixed with the sparkle of pearly whites,

And there is enough glimmer in the room;

It’s no surprise no one requested a mirror to replace my tits.

Standing up, a small blizzard whirls at my feet,

And it stirs just like the newly hatched cocoons within me

I am lost

I am lost like the smoke released into the warm air

I am lost by those same lips, by that same laugh, even overcome by a cough

My red eyes scan the room;

They meet with four or five eager pairs,

Owned by people I do not know.

I only know one.

I climb back onto the counter, this time on my stomach.

I have school in three hours,

But I never want this moment to end.

The sound of plastic rustling, I let my eyes close and my heart justify.

 

Side chick

Tags

alcoholic, basketball, confused, diary, engaged, love, rejection, relationship, sad, side, sober

I need to figure out how to change everything from “diary entry” to “memoir”…

 

I think I’m always the side chick.  I can’t tell if I fear commitment, or if people fear committing to me.  Maybe I don’t want to know.  I enjoy the ambiguity.  Maybe it’s the control I enjoy – holding someone’s relationship in the palm of my hand; the exact area of their hand that they refuse to hold my heart in.  I’m always their number two.  I’m the one whose number gets blocked when they go on dinner dates, but I am also the one who’s told to stop moaning when the girlfriend calls.

Come back into my bed, but only on Monday nights; come sit at my bar top, but only when my lady has night classes; come be at my beck and call, but only when I’m not at someone else’s beck and call!  It’s all fun and games until I fall for him.  Admiring the guy with the pretty blue eyes and the big dimples that has soon-to-be fiancé is easy when it’s from afar, and it’s a secret so well-kept from everyone.  Once my lips touched his, everything became complicated again.

When he invited me to an NBA game a while back, I scoffed at it and told everyone what a bad idea that would be, and joked about my death-by-girlfriend.  Then I went to the game anyway.

Me.  Him.  His fiance. My best friend.  The worst night of my entire life.  Seeing her beautiful smile as she laughs at his jokes, and staring so deeply into those blue eyes that I so much adore – I envy her. I envy her, so I take as many shots as my body can handle.  Maybe I took more than my body could handle.

Stumbling through the aisles, I run down the stairs to use the restroom.  Catching my breath at the bottom, I feel tears welling up in my entire body.  I feel so weak, so I push through the crowds of people, cut the entire line in the bathroom, and try not cry as I slide the small lock on the backside of the bathroom stall door.  Five or six deep, urine-stench-filled breaths and I leave the bathroom with my beautiful façade still intact.

Weaving around the cliques of Sacramento Kings fans and Los Angeles Lakers fans, I get to a small beer stand and order two coors lights – only two because they would only allow for me to purchase two.  My mind is racing, and all I want to do is stop it in its tracks.  Stuffing my change into my pocket and grabbing my beers, I find the section of our seats, and make my way back up the steps.  As I scan the crowd above me, I lock my eyes with those beautiful blue ones, and my stomach ties into a hundred knots.  Butterflies.  I put my head down and try not to smile as I think back to our first kiss.

The final buzzer sounds a short forty-five minutes later, but I’m not sitting in my seat to hear it.  Drunkenly trekking up the stairs with my two beers, I know I need to leave.  Not out of fear of being too publicly intoxicated, but out of fear that my bathroom Lamaze-style breathing didn’t calm my nerves enough.

My old boss…

Tags

adultery, boss, butterflies, closure, confused, diary, fraternization, journal, love, past, smashing pumpkins, writing

I live in the midst of this ambiguous response every single day, and I guess I don’t have much left to say to him. “But,” I start to say to him, not really knowing where I was heading. “Yeah, you’re right.” I smile, and he kisses me.

I sip on a beer trying to calm the pit in my stomach, but it isn’t helping. Smashing Pumpkins Pandora station is always playing in the background, and I get lost in Bullet with Butterfly Wings. I think it’s the theme song for my vaginal hubris. Now I’m naked, nothing but an animal, but can you fake it for just one more show?

I make my way back to the couch, and I can feel butterflies in my own stomach rising again as I walk over to Adam. Just the way his smile gleams, even when his teeth aren’t shining through, it gets me every time. I lean in to kiss Adam, and I realize these butterflies have always been here since the beginning. “Fuck,” I think to myself, but I can’t help how good it feels to be in his arms, and I want my lips on his forever.

            Pulling away, I look at him, and I don’t even know what I’m doing anymore. Tell me I’m the only one; tell me there’s no other one. Time stops and moves in fast forward all at the same time. Pushing back the tears that should tell me to go home and get out of whatever the fuck this is, I push myself into him and let everything else escape.

◊          ◊          ◊          ◊          ◊

            Waking up in this random bed, in a room decorated by a woman that isn’t here, I still feel so calm. Maybe I’m just cum drunk.

            Maybe I’m actually still drunk.

            Side by side, staring at the home screen of Thank You for Smoking, I keep reaching out for his hand that’s barely creeping out from under the nape of my neck. I play with his fingers like he’ll somehow get the hint that I want to feel his fingers playing with mine right back, but that’s unlikely. I know he’s too emotionally distant to ever hold my hand – the symbol of love, by way of interlocked fingers – so my fingers go straight for his wedding ring like some sort of magnetic force, and I can’t help but play with it.

I let out a soft sigh as I remember what the ring is for.

I try and find the remote to play the movie over again, to get distracted by Aaron Eckhart’s poor acting before my mind starts racing again.

“I have to get up and get ready,” Adam reminds me, stopping me mid-search. He’s so good at bringing me back to this reality that I so often forget exists. I’m his opening server, so I need to get up and get ready too, but I’m not ready to let him go.

The second I walk out that door, he becomes my boss again, and these butterflies in my stomach start going crazy. They start feinting to flutter again the way they do when my lips touch his, when my skin touches his…

Rolling softly into his chest, I kiss him gently, passionately, all over his body. I know if I get him to fuck me again, I get to hold him for just a little bit longer.

23

Tags

alcoholic, bisexual, closet, confused, diary, instagram, LGBT, love, love is love, sex, teenage, twenty-three

Twenty-Three

I can remember as all of my peers ran amuck, I simply admired. I admired the pretty girls doing long division when I was six; I admired the cheerleaders making their way off to college when I was thirteen; I admired everyone graduating college when I was nineteen. Now I’m twenty three and I admire the six year olds doing addition and subtraction, the thirteen year olds just entering high school, and the nineteen year olds taking their easy GE classes at their junior college. Currently I’m thousands of dollars in debt to the school system, the judicial system, and I rack up a hundred dollar tab everywhere I step foot. My heart aches nearly as much as my wallet and my teary-eyes are almost as red as the cherries in my old fashions.

I came out of the closet when I was eleven, and pushed myself back into it before I was twelve. I’ve fallen in love with a fair few women, only one of which I ever pursued and let into my heart fully. Suddenly I find myself trapped in a world that does not coexist with the LGBT+ community. They are on separate areas of the downtown, a realistic divide that my heart so metaphorically feels. I’ve let a few men into my heart though, a true passion and a true love that I admire every day.

The more days that pass and the more tinder accounts and instagram accounts that I encounter, the more I find myself struggling with the life I push myself to be in every day. I find a disconnect between my body’s sexual thirst and my mind’s sexual attraction – a disconnect between whether I want breasts in my mouth more, or a perfectly god-made penis in it instead.

Twenty-three was probably the age I always thought I wanted to be. Twenty-six always seemed old as a kid, and I knew that by twenty-three I would be in a stable relationship, quickly planning my wedding, but not have any wrinkles yet.  As I began finally doing long division at nine years-old, I knew that I was on the right track – I knew that twenty-three was the place to aspire to be. Twelve years later, I’m in the midst of the worst year of my life.

I’m seemingly straight, without a degree, and without any friends, searching for the perfect girlfriend and the perfect job in a mix of serving jobs, class waitlists, and bills, more potent than my typical whiskey cocktail.

Waking up every day is more painful than a wine hangover, and all I ever want is the hair of the dog…and of the pussy.