Conversation With a Recovering Sex Worker

"They all have a prize" she said,
"Each woman out there is willing,
has, probably is at this very moment,
selling herself for something.
Some do it for love, others for money,
there are those who do it for need
be it food drink or drug,
others just like the way it feels
to have a cock inside of them
that loveless embrace and meaningless fuck,
with some cash thrown on top
anything is good enough for them to cum."

She sips her coffee,
lights another cigarette
and as she looks down
cup in one hand resting on the table
bitting her pinky finger
then taking a big drag of smoke
and as she exhales she says

"But all of those women,
especially those who do it
for money or for drugs,
will have to fuck guys who are just dirty,
their cocks unwashed for days
with that white smegma shit on them
and who knows what else!
That rancid sweaty smell–
some stinking of garbage
others just violent assholes. You know,
the moment they close that door
those women are slaves to those men,
sex slaves. They've sold themselves
for twenty thousand pesos, their freedom
for one hour, they belong to them."

She takes another drag from her smoke,
her voice is shaky, her grip on the glass is tight.

"Those men are the kind of people
who'll do all sorts of perverted things,
especially to a young woman,
they like to see a pretty face wince in pain,
a pleasurable agony."

She looks towards the green mountains,
past the city skyline, past the busy and working city
as a serene air comes through the large windows

"I stopped doing that a long time ago,
sure I have my price, but it isn't some thing
just anyone can pay for. I gotta like you,
you've got to buy me dinner,
take me out dancing, show me
a good time around town.
Then, when we are back at your place,
then, and only after we've met MY
expectations, then you can ravage me,
or I you. Well, not you you, but
you know what I mean, don't you darling?"

She snuffs her cigarette.

"No, sabe que? Todo bien." Ella dijo.

It is a brand new day!
Gracias por las lecciones
De nada por las lecciones
I loved every minute inside you

De tus ojos
Y aun asi
me hayas dejado
quemando por dentro,

Estoy feliz.
I am happy,
because it didn't feel right
towards the end there.

It became something of a joke,
My love for you.
Que Dios os bendiga a los pecadores
Ahora y en la hora de nuestra muerte,

Amen!

Que sigamos resando
por perdones ajenos, queriendo
momentos prestados
nunca devueltos.

Cambio de papeles
Click Click Click Click
Alma capturada digitalmente
The Ghost In The Shell, it

Whispers sweet nothings
to an ear eager to please, just then
emotions become toys
la lengua en la oreja.

There is something to be ware of:
Te ame.
Verdaderamente lo hice,
pero eso fue, y no sera.

En el nombre del Padre,
del Hijo, y del Espiritu Santo.

Idiot

I really don't understand why I allow myself to feel anything at all
each and every emotion drags me through the murky depths of my mind
with turns leading to parts of my id unknown, places that I should have left alone
though it seems like I always drag parts along the paths taken
or scooping up pieces of reality to keep safely with me.

On Lizards

She coils like a snake
shedding her skin habitually
leaving remains of who she was,
or rather pretends to be,
along with the carcasses
of those she's consumed,
eaten whole, swallowed,
perverted.

There is a glimmer in her blue eyes
every time her tongue sticks out
to sense the air around her,
tasting for a fix, hoping
to feel the warmth of the cold night.
A field of dust is laid before her
she crawls upon it with belly swollen,
the last victim of her bite.

She leaves trails behind
as her body moves, a straw,
clearing the powdery surface,
revealing beneath the rotten ground
kept from sight, hidden,
until her swift movements
clear a woven path visible
to those who dare pay attention
to the swollen mess that is left behind.

She coils around again,
having found comfort
upon the tiled bathroom floor
of a broken down house
with cracks on the walls
as it tries to hold up the sins of a past
which extends thousands of years.
Poe would have cried
at the sight of such visage.
Skin flakes, scales glow,
her long tongue sticks out into the night
as her brilliant mind is numbed away.

Good Ridance

I guess it's futile. You say I don't know my feelings, well I know my emotions well enough to be able to shut them off if needed be. Sadly, they are a sort of fuel, for living. I asked jim how you were. Because I have known him for many many years, and he's been like a father to me in many instances. You don't talk to me, you're cryptic, you push everyone away, and all I wanted was to know how you actually were. You claim that I am a pagan, but I don't worship anything, or anyone, or any names. I don't know where you get this shit from. I guess you must be high on some shit, which happens. I'm tired of talking to you and always getting illegible messages because you're too fucked up to type. This worries me. I don't want to worry about you, you're a grown woman who is killing herself. Not my fucking problem, and I'm sorry I made it so. Because I don't need your baggage. So I thank you for flipping out, because I didn't know how to push you away. I am sorry because of the human being that resides in you, but I can't let your shit get to me. As much as I want to help you, I cannot and shouldn't, for until you want to help yourself, there is no point. I don't know what else to say, but I hope you get well.

On depression

So the thing about depression is that you can never really leave it behind. No matter what you are doing there it is, no matter how hard you pretend there is always something hiding behind eyes that once ached to see the world which turns them towards the dark and only want to sleep. In fear of sounding like some over sensitive idiot I tend to stop writing mid sentence, but that's only because of a series of social stigmas implanted by schooling and television, ex's, people who often drift through your life, which dictate that expressing emotion is wrong and shouldn't be done. Well, sometimes we stop caring enough to actually put something down on paper, or a digital format to be viewed by others. Maybe to help, maybe to vent, or it could just be to help the ego.

It just hides back there, in the darkest little parts of the mind. Any moment and every moment you spend on your own is a moment it gets to reach out further into your soul(?) and pulls it apart. So far, 28 years have passed through me and each and every year since I recognized this, it keeps happening. Sometimes the happiness lasts enough to let me see some sort of opening ahead, but just then the depression comes back and drags me back into the bush, away from reason and the ability to contain one self. As of recent one thing had kept me going, and it was as selfish as it could be. Being selfish after all, is but a lingering string that lets us find the way out, or sometimes even deeper into the woods. It really does often feel as if there is nothing one can do, that this is an end of sorts.

Covering up the wounds has become second nature, smile at the passing professors, the fellow students. Every once in a while you run into others who are pretending just like you. Something calls you to them, there is an inherent need to be near them but... it's never going to go into fruition, damaged goods and damaged goods probably shouldn't be together. Then again, in the pit everything seems like a bad idea, even the best of things that could help one move forward in life. There is nothing like depression to bring you to a dead stop, literally.

Drugs. Never had any experience with anti-depressants except for one bout where a doctor prescribed some wellbutrin to help with the cigarettes. They didn't do very well, still smoked. Ended up dropping the meds, it just didn't feel right. Alcohol has always been a friend, although sometimes it seems like the kind of friend that is willing to stab you in the back at any moment, a real cunt. Cocaine and other "hard drugs" are just that, hard. It's like getting fucked in the ass by a large prison inmate. Feels great at the moment, you enjoy yourself and even cum a little, but afterwards you feel dirty, used, and like your ass is going to explode. It's a real fucking trip. Marijuana is the only thing that has helped to keep it leveled. It lets some happiness in, reminds you that it's alright. Too bad it's as illegal as it is around here, nothing like having the government tell you that you have to get their sanctioned anti-depressants which might kill you instead of smoking a plant which grows from the ground. And people wonder why I'm so fucking depressed.

I was about to write some great paragraph about how people can be there and help you but, it's all a fucking joke. People only make it worse, you start to depend on some cunt of a friend and next thing you know they are just another notch on the post of souls to be avoided. Real fucking hypocrites whose only need for you is to justify their existence, be it with words or my dick. There is nothing like fucking a corpse, someone you know is already dead or dying in the great scheme of your life. Good-bye, it was nice knowing you, don't mind the load I've left in your "tunnel of love." There is something wrong with me, and all I know is that I'm the only one who can deal with it. I'll stick to my drugs, to my loneliness, to a sort of conventional mind fuck trip, a trivial yet ergonomic existence with the way in which the world has treated me. A real fuck you to the stars and to the heavens. There is nothing holding me back, so I feel like I can do anything, even if it's writing about my sadness, depression, about the small moments that add up to nothing, about the love felt and ignored. Because no one is going to read this and thing "gee, he had a point." They'll only think "what a sap, glad he never made it."

Happy Green Trees

Sun shines through leafy green trees, all lined up on street medians cutting the black asphalts poignant composition upon what once was their home. Lined up, one by one, they wait in silence. There is little that they say to one another, besides the usual whispers carried by the wind. Last year it was the passing of a beautiful oak tree near the intersection of ninth and 32nd ave. There was a bit of an explosion as the internal combustion engine of the Maserati slammed against the ancients bark. Flames over took this majestic being and burnt every bit of green, the fire burned for over an hour before the fire department put it completely out. By this time though, the beautiful green was gone from this one tree in particular, and its bark damaged. This is when the city decided that the trees were much to dangerous... or rather, the money of the Maserati's owners thought so. Their child, who'd been driving intoxicated wasn't to blame, not at all! Rather, it seemed more fitting for the trees to be blamed, after all they didn't have twelve lawyers and the backing of a family fortune that spans over generations. No, the tree was definitely to blame. As soon as Mrs. X showed up in the office of the mayor on that morning, the trees knew what was to come. Soon they had all kinds of little people climbing on top, tying themselves to their giant branches. This was all so surprising to them! They were unable to move, and had mostly decided that if they were to die then what best place than that very spot where they were born, next to their brethren and fellow trees. Some of the humans though, some whom they'd known as children crossing the street, brushing their hands against the strong bark, made it clear they appreciated their shade and free oxygen by spending entire days and nights at their trunk to make sure no one hurt them. Eventually the rich family gave in, and decided that it probably wasn't such a good idea to cut down such majestic beings, who had often covered their subtle and fragile skin from the sun as they drove in their convertibles down ninth. They bought out the street, built a bridge by-pass, and allowed the trees to grow and have even more friends and green around them. It was beautiful.

This story is fiction, all of it. Even the way in which humans behave, that is also fiction. It's all fiction, the whole thing. This makes me sad.

Possibilities are endless, but tell that to a corpse.

In the moments between sleep

with the shades drawn and

allowing just glimmers of sunlit

reflections of an everlasting green

that seeps its way onto walls

well known and forgotten,

breaths escape from lips

which are too tired for anything or anyone.

In between the covers

there is a corpse,

or soon to be at least,

and as a mind winds down to moments

captured and preserved

in formaldehyde filled jars

stacked around the room,

the realization strikes

that these memories

just don't taste the way they used to,

a realization made

as this bed which was

kinder to passions untold

becomes a coffin

once the covers wrap around

to keep and swallow whole

in the warmth and knowledge

of being dead to the world.

Dead to SourGirl.

Second round of publications

This is my second time being published in the publication P'an Ku, a bi-yearly publication for Broward College.

Sky Line

I'm a literary hobo,
jumping trains of thought.
Never staying too long
in one place, unless
something makes me do so.

Burnt Marshmallow

"Wretched night" are the words that escape his lips. Walking through the back alleys of the town, garbage lines the side of the buildings, some of it is made up like homes for the indigents and lost. Each step gets heavier and heavier with the passing of time, he needs his fix. Finally at his destination, a man in baggy clothes and baseball cap with shinny stickers on it looks him over.

"What will it be?" He knows his costumers by the visage of death drawn upon their beings.

"I just need the usual... It's been a long night." A stack of singles and fives is passed from one to the other, and as soon as it is counted a bag containing tiny blue pills is exchanged.

"See you soon."

----

When he gets back to his apartment she is waiting on the dirty old couch, a thing full of smells and stains that remark the past 2 years as if they'd been decades. Her thin lips are dry and chalked, a crust under her nose and bags under the eyes makes it hard to remember what she looked like before it all started. He puts his coat on the back of the door, and crunching past plastic cups and caps that litter the hallway he scratches at his head. Thin arms and even thinner wrists still manage to gather the tools of their addiction. Straws, tin foil, and a couple of lighters of which he can't recall if they are dead or not.

"What took so long?" she asks as her head wobbles, trying to sit up. He makes room for himself on the edge of the couch as he clears some of the table by tossing a heap of garbage to the floor.

"I was just thinking, maybe we ought to get out of here soon. I mean, like... get out of here, this town, start new somewhere else." He opens the baggie and takes two pills out, rips two pieces of tinfoil, and passes one of each to her. She grabs a straw and lighter just as he does and places the pill on the metallic surface. With the straw in her mouth she begins to burn the underside of the tinfoil, a smoldering crackling is emitted from the pill as it heats up and starts to smoke, she suctions the white smoke as the smell of burnt marshmallow fills the room. He follows suit.

As the pill melts, it moves on the tinfoil, making a dark spiral as it travels on the surface of the heated metal. Their lungs absorbing the opiate and eyes widening, this is what their life has become. After two more pills they lay back and hold one another.

"I think it would be a good idea." Her hair is oily from lack of washing, she tucks it behind her ears. Pimples are sprouting like mountains across her unwashed face. When was the last time they washed? They can't remember, the bathroom is only used to defecate once every couple of days, and maybe to throw up in more often than anything else. The shower is seldom used. "I'm tired of this place, the people are horrible."

Sustaining his head like a helium balloon that has grown too heavy, he comes in and out of consciousnesses unable to talk. They both fall asleep on the couch.

-----

Sunlight. It's warmth is heating up their faces, it awakens him. She's still asleep. Getting up he feels his bones crack, falling asleep on the couch is no good for them, but he doesn't notice after a fix or two. Once in the kitchen he pours himself some water in a cup that's been sitting by the sink for who knows how many days, weeks even. After gulping it down he opens the fridge to find it empty. The last of the food stamp money had been spent on their current stash, selling them had become yet another habit meant to sustain their addiction. He serves more water and drinks it down.

Sitting on the couch he sets up another piece of tinfoil, the roll is still new and has quite a bit of the shinny paper on it. He shakes the lighter to make sure it's still got fuel, placing another pill on top he lights up. She awakens as he blows smoke on her face.

"What... oh... here..." she grabs for the paper and straw as he lights it for her. This is how every morning is spent.

"We need more money, we'll be out by tonight." His voice shakes a little, she knows what he meas.

"Alright, I'll call Hue. I'm sure he could use some release." She inhales, and holds it. Again, burnt marshmallows fill the air.

-----

She's dressed up, unshowered, but dressed up. Her skinny legs are nothing like they used to be. Once upon a time she ran every morning before going to work at the restaurant, her figure was envied, her beauty was obscene. Every man wanted her, and she knew it. Now she's just another corpse walking the street.

"Hue is coming soon, you'll have to go wait outside. Can you head over to John's and see if he can hook us up with some pot? Tell him he can come by for the money later." She's applying lipstick to her chapped lips, a bit of eye shadow, and some flush takes away the look of death. She almost looks normal, but there is something about addiction you can never hide.

"Alright." It's all he says. He gets up and walks to the door, grabs his jacket and just as he's about to close the door she says to him:

"I love you!"

"I love you too babe... call John's when you are done." He walks down the stairs and runs into Hue, he's a tall blonde man, wearing glasses as usual. He's married, but likes to get his kicks elsewhere just like everyone else. He's never asked her just what he does that he has to go somewhere else to find it besides home, he doesn't care. Hue doesn't know who he is.

-----

John's house is five minutes from the apartment, it is an old house filled with old newspapers and an array of stuff which could be easily thrown out, but John just can't seem to part with it. It reminds him of his parent's, he says. They saved all of this stuff, and now it just happened to be his watch over it, having them both gone this was the only thing they'd left behind. A house full of garbage. He knocks on the door.

"Come on in!" John screams from within. Opening the door with his think fingers, he hears the rustling of the dog as it's running towards the door. It's an old pit bull with barely any teeth left, a very lovable old dog.

"So what's up?" John is rolling a blunt, he always has pot.

"Not much, Lucy is working a job so I thought I'd come by."

"I see..." He knew what this meant, but didn't say anything. Lucy wasn't a stranger to him by any means, even shut in pot heads need to get their rocks off every once in a while.

"Hey, do you think you can front us some of that pot? Lucy will have the money for you tonight, you can just come back with me and she'll have it for you."

"Alright, not a problem." Lighting the blunt makes the room fill with smoke almost instantly, maybe it wouldn't happen so fast if there wasn't so much shit in there, air circulation might be better, but tell that to John, he'd only say that it's his house and he'll do as he pleases. He's right though, no one should be telling someone how to live their lives.

-----

The phone rings, it's Lucy.

"Yeah, I'm all done over here, you guys can come through if you want."

"Sure, we'll be right there."

-----

She's back in her regular clothes, her face is still flushed even though there is no make up on it. Her lipstick is a bit smeared, and her hair looks kind of clumpy. She's smoking a pill as the two of them walk into the living room, seems like Hue left her a tip, there is a bag with a nice stash of pills by her side of the table. This is good, he wont have to go out tonight to re up. John takes a seat on a metal chair across from them, tossing a baggie of pot on the table.

"Twenty five please."

"Here you go." She puts down her utensils and reaches into her pocket, pulling out a small wad of bills. He accepts the money and pulls out a pre rolled joint, lighting it he winks at her and she smiles.

"So what is up for tonight?" John takes a couple of puffs and passes the joint to Lucy.

"Oh I don't know, thinking we are going to stay in and maybe watch some Fifth Element." Her voice seems raspy, maybe it's all the smoking.

"I was thinking we could get some groceries, the fridge is kind of empty." He takes the joint from Lucy and inhales a large hit, coughing as if his lungs were trying to escape years of torture and abuse.

"Easy old man, you can't take those big hits with this stuff." John takes the joint from him and puffs at it. "I can give you guys a ride to the market if you need, I could use some supplies myself."

"Sounds good, now that we have a little bit of cash it sounds like a good idea." She lights the tinfoil, and sucks in more of the burnt marshmallow.

-----

It's been three days since Hue came around, and they needed more money. Lucy went to walk the streets for a little while, he stayed at home trying to figure out who he could rob and how to make a quick buck.

Lucy comes in a couple of hours later, her dress is a bit ripped, and there is something dripping from between her legs. She doesn't say anything as she passes by him on the couch, she throws a wad of bills on the table and heads straight to the bathroom. He hears the shower go on. He grabs one of the last pills and lights it up.

"Hey, Steve!" She screams from the shower. "Can you head down to T's and pick up some more blues?"

"Sure thing babe."

-----

The alley hasn't changed much, a couple of bums are fighting over the contents of a garbage can as he passes them, they don't even notice him. Shadows seem to elongate and compress, the wind is blowing and there is little to no fresh smell, it's a stink of decay that seems to linger in the inner city. Shivering from the cold he crosses to the other side of the alley where T is usually hanging out this time of night, but he's not there. Instead there is another dealer, he's seen him before. Tall and dark, with an over sized coat on, gold teeth, and a fuck you look to him.

"What you need boy?"

"Umm... where is T?"

"He ain't here... now you need somethin' or not?"

"Yeah, I need two hundred worth..."

"Aight..." He reaches in his jacket and pulls out 4 baggies, each with 5 pills in it.

"Cool cool..." He hands the money and takes the bags. "Catch you around."

"Yeah, whatever."

-----

Back in the apartment she's smoking the last pill from the last stash. There are a few bills left on the table, and the aluminum roll is growing thin. He walks in and plops next to her, setting the bags of pills on the table as he does so.

"We really need to get out of here..." He says, but just as he does she kisses him and exhales into his mouth. The hit makes him feel light headed, he forgets what he was talking about.

"You just need some more of this..." She rips some foil for him, opens a baggie, and sets up a fix for him. "Come on, smoke some and fuck me."

He get's high, he doesn't fuck her, his dick can't get up after he smokes the pills. They both pass out on the couch as the sun begins to rise on the horizon.

Sweet Lovely...

It's all so abnormal
the way we go through life
in our air conditioned vehicles
with our cellophane sex
barely talking to each other
like we were a million miles
apart, yet our skin touches
and our stink commingles.

I tried to love once or twice
it fell on my lap
much the way it usually does
and every time it managed to
be squandered by the corrosion
of time and space
triangles often do that.

Antiseptic dreams
clean and coordinated
like the dance of a dying race
we beat the drums of war
love and sadness
to the rhythmic procession
of hearts left behind to spoil.

Can you imagine
for just one second
what life would be like
if we all just said fuck it
and started to talk
and walk
and listen to one another
towards one another
and made the strides
to make a difference in our own
and each others lives?

I can't
I've been locked in too long
kept inside my wrapper
I know not freedom
I feel little but the air
as it rustles against my plastic prison
the medicine numbs everything else
and my mind plagues me with one thought
over and over and over and over again

When will I feel that soft caress?

Construction Ahead

Continue on

and don't give two damns

life often fringes on death

after all it wouldn't be life.

Fighting for survival

on a rainbow road

made of multicolored dreams

smashed to bits and pieces

all you can say is

wow.

It's not so easy when the past

catches up to you

and the lovers that keep hiding

inside of your head come up

for air.

Light glares off the gravel

coloring the walls of the houses

as you pass by each one

and it makes you wonder

about the could and should have been's.

Like a pilot light that's blown out

that let's the whole place fill up

with gaseous emissions

just waiting for that one spark

to blow everything up.

So is my mind

heart

soul

waiting for that one

who will make everything light up

blowing up the walls

and the pre built concepts

of reality.

This rainbow road can take you

anywhere you want to be.

Built from smashed dreams

it makes you wonder just how far

you can really walk before you decide

that it's time to settle down

and take a sip of wine

to numb out the pain

the sway

forget about the sores on your feet.

Still I wander through the streets

headlights lighting the way

to an unknown

yet yearned for tomorrow.

It's all about the story

the trip taken

the slow moments that make it worth while

like a woman's scent as she holds you tight

or her whispering words of beauty

promises often broken

it's all momentary and fleeting.

All meant to ignite some sort of reaction

erection

confessions of the heart.

I've hold her tight several times

my muse

but more often than never

I must let her go

to be free

for I am not a cage

although I am a caged

animal

on a rainbow road

made of smashed dreams.

Hungry?

Sometimes the mind
it plays dirty tricks
and it makes it all seem
the color rose.
In the end
it's the same as blood
spilling from the veins
of the lost and obtuse
onto a pavement
aching to be fed.

On stealing a kiss

In my desire for you I find myself.
When your soft touch I covet,
it is my heart you'd soothe.
Knowing I'm not able
to keep your attention
rips me to the core.

If only I could hold you
and this shell wasn't broken,
and the future was taken care of,
maybe happiness we could find.
But this is my story
and seldom is there a happy ending.

So I bow to death,
so I bow to poverty,
and I welcome the bony touch
of the sick and the impure
for we are family
and you are gone.

You walk away because it's easier
you keep away because of us.
Sometimes I wish I'd never kissed you
maybe you'd still be around
but then I wouldn't know
the soft touch of rose petals to my lips.

I awaken from a dream of you into a nightmare of sorts.

Since I last wrote two people have passed away due to drug overdose. This synthetic heroin is killing people. 3 weeks ago it was a woman in her mid to late twenties, I didn't really know her but I had met her on a few occasions, a passing face one can say. I did know her reputation though, and as sad as it was it's hard not to say that we all saw that one coming. Latest addition to the count was three days ago. Brother of a childhood friend, cousin of an old old friend. Passed away much too young, 21 years too young.

That was my news this morning, as I woke up from a dream with you again, sour girl. This time it was a bit different. We lay under a tree next to a lake, not together but with one another. Streams of air passing through the branches and leafs, I could see them as they made their way over the water up to us. Red was all over, and the roots of the tree which stretched out under us like protruding veins which softly dug into us. You spoke to me, told me that I deserved so much better and that life would give to me that which I worked for. Your voice resonated against me, a feeling which now in my waking life I miss. Hell, I miss everything about the dream, your eyes, your smile, the warmth of you. As quickly as the dream began, it ended. You disappeared off the face of the earth, much like you did in real life. Then I woke up, and received a call about a friend, who 21 years too young passed away from heroin overdose.

I hate it when things like this happen, when my mind brings you out and then I'm reminded as to why I made the effort to push you away. Well, I want one thing from life, and that is my peace with you, a sober from heroin you.

Internet bares fruit of knowledge

I wish I had seen this earlier in my life.

Coming to terms with her allegorical death

I wish I could say I've learned something dire, an important tid bit of information, but the only thing that I keep exploring is my inner thoughts. Too lost within? Stuck in the muck and tangled in memories? Yes, but at least I know so.

I've been reminded about the way that I was treated by many, disposed of like a bad habit (mirrors can be ugly things I guess), made aware of the injustice of the just, the lust behind the calm blue eyes of yesterday, and the complicated situations that being "alive" really brings on.

Not without much effort do I find myself entangled in the conversations with a lover who will always be, at the same time pulling away from others who dilly dally back and fro without knowing just what it is that they want from life. Rather, finding the self away from overtly complicated states is best right now, but my lover will always be there and that is more than anyone else can say.

It's been years, and years it will be until I'm in the arms of someone that I really trust again. Last time I trusted all too easy, letting the snide remarks slide, the back handed comments and words packed with bullets bounce, all along all of her horrible manifestations came from within to barrage me (or any unlucky male found present at her grasp) as if I'd been the one to hurt her, but I let her go on because I knew her pain and I wanted to help; thus she gave of herself to me, but one cannot deny the hurt that she caused to herself or to me, it's all kept away in the state of memories or even coming back in dreams. It truly makes the past sour but reminds me not to fall for her again.

My lover, I do not have to worry about that with. We've shared the world and more, a bed, a kiss or two, and even the words "I love you" without anything forcing us to fear or worry about what tomorrow may bring because we know that whatever it is we will be there. She is nothing like sour girl, she will never be. That is good, it is great, my childhood friend and lover becomes more than just a memory but a living part of my life. Meanwhile the sour one is embedded into dreams and memories as a husk of a woman I do not wish to have a part of ever again, and so it becomes easier to read others like her, to keep away.

Both of them held the same space once, yet they are complete opposites. Within my heart they found warmth and appreciation, and only one of them knew what to do with it, my solemn lover. Sour Girl knew nothing of such things, her appreciation of life seems only superficial, childish at best (spread your legs for happiness). Playing back and fro from flower bed to flower bed like an earthworm, just eating and defecating while pretending to save the world. Sure, she helps flowers bloom much as she helped me, but the cost of the life led is so much higher than any price I'd be willing to pay, otherwise why would she want to run away from herself so badly with the drugs, sex, and alcohol? And run she does.

With one breath, she stitches together what is left of my heart. With a few words she pumps the eviscerated organs with life and brings me back to stature. She knows what to say to make me smile, to bring out the light within me. My solemn lover will always be there to stitch me back together when sour girls have their way.

This is what I've learned lately, I know it's not much, but to me it's a world.

Excuses are cheap

I'm achy but feeling a lot better. I am reminded of something someone once said to me:

"what i meant by saying you need to be more of an asshole, is that you are already too lovable, floating along, so you, like me, are a bit of a doormat. people take advantage, and we both think people have good intentions. when in the end, it is not the case, so by standing up, saying no sometimes, putting your foot down, thats what i mean by being more of an asshole. kinda being facetious, cos it seems that only assholes and douchebags, those that unfairly compete for life's resources, are the ones that make it. hence, if we become more like assholes, maybe we will run amok and can start driving hummers and make soap outta our lipo and tit jobs." - Anon

How right they were. I am sometimes lost in so many thoughts that I forget about this, and this is the most important part of it all. Damn it, I hate it when you are right.

Love, Pain, Alone.

Sometimes I get tired of pretending everything is alright. That all of the people I know are wonderful and that the world is full of well meaning human beings who I have yet to meet. I often forget about the deceit, the lies, the cold shoulders that people whom I once called brother or sister have given me. It's the lack of enthusiasm to be cheated, to be used and thrown away that makes me want to crawl into a roach hotel to never come out again. It's the luster of the shit they sell that turns me off, the obvious smell of their lascivious mental encounters with the idea of fucking you over, it's what gets them off. Sick minds pay no attention to the suffering of the human spirit, it is easier to trample than it is to nurture, therefore the amount of humans who would rather see you eating dirt is greater than that of those who wish to actually help their fellow man or woman.

It's here that I find myself. Lost in thought within the crevices of my mind. Wondering what it was that made Sour Girl so sour. Was it the shitty human relations she had? Or was she just born to be a user and abuser herself. I may never know, and that is ok because some things are best left unknown.

It's here that I find myself. Wondering alone amongst the ghosts of memories. Compelled to reach out and say hello to old friends, but always reminded of their paper faces which make me quickly turn away.

I was reading over my last post, and I noticed that with the words Pain and Love you create Alone. Without the first two, the latter is non existent. It's as if language itself is telling us that to love and feel pain is the path to being alone. Because no one wants anything more than to love, and that love we all yearn for so much will undoubtedly cause pain. Once you feel that pain you realize that you have two options: You can continue to love and feel pain, or you can be alone, devoid of both, yet having such an understanding that one would purposely stray from such things in order to save thine own self.

My only wish is to find a woman who will not cheat me, lie to me, live in deceit, but a woman who will respect me as I respect her, be honest, loving, and understanding. Someone with a heart, as I am tired of meeting heartless little girls who play the strings of my heart like harp only to snap them and crush it under their feet. I certainly hope that she is the one, because I haven't met anyone who shares the kind of things we share, and thats only scratching the surface.