Of First Loves and Ventricles Blown Apart

There once was what I thought to be an angel, his white hair spread boyishly over a black pillowcase. I remember fragments sharply. The sound of a car door opening and our bodies spilling out, tangled and nervous.
The smell of cigarettes and desperation, searching for everything but admitting nothing, our faces smooth and seemingly untroubled.
Empty opaque bottles clattering down steep stairs in that shitty goth club...

His long fingered artist's hands spread toward me, open. His broad palms spreading me open. Cool pale skin, so very like expensive paper. I called him my Stardust Angel, and he called me Laura.

Our long sticky summer was over as fast as a shutter clicks...red wine and dancing, stealing glances and snatches of his face, I couldn't look into it, it was like the sun. I withered with love and undefinable teenage lust.

When he left for England I was broken. I imagined all of those watery miles stretched between us. I sent countless letters, poems, paintings, none of them clearly saying how I felt. How I was consumed.

I still have the three letters he sent to me, postmarked on thin air mail paper, worn with age and tucked away with care. East Anglia UK 1998.

How can I stop now?

Push me up to starry skies lover...if you can.
I'll burn on one side and freeze on the other.

I hope the dirty rain colored gray tendrils of my mind wrap around and cradle my loving thoughts...I hope they are tied in so many strong and slippery knots. Hold them fast. Wrap them in spasming bows of blinking neural love patterns, so that I do not forget when my mind fogs over like a car window.

Emotions begin as a tiny seamless split, granular and pixelated. I feel the quiet desperation as these unwanted emotions push their way upward out of my chest cavity, all venom and seething salt, to be replaced with softer and plusher things. It's an insidious cycle, and one I am painfully aware of now that I am smothering myself inside myself once again.

Hurry up please it's time.

The end of Winter. It is officially Spring, and has been for some time now. I am frozen.
It's not that I stagnate purposefully. I am encased in sap. Covered in a thin layer of frost. I wish I could whack my soul with a piece of rebar and let it know that Wintertime is over.

I long for Summer. I very much enjoy the deliberate and semi-hypnotic clicking of my heels on hot sparkling pavement. It is deeply satisfying, a visceral sort of satisfaction.
I imagine that I am in some way dominating those pin pricks of sidewalk.

Tap tap skip. Crush crush crush those tiny molecules under my merciless heels and pink feet.

Beginnings

This is where I'll come to brain vomit.
I'll finally force myself to put all of the things that I would mostly scribble secretively into various hidden journals into a place of actual accessibility.

We'll see how it goes...

Or if I'll even bother.