Monday, July 07, 2003
i feel like the narrator
i am jack's wasted life. i drag my feet -- one long stroll -- and i feel like a slow motion mick jagger because my sister is making clucking noises behind my back and i know i'm a chicken but it's for more than my walk. each face through the smudged windows is enlarged. big hair. big eyes. big teeth. big ears. i'm waiting for the Big Bad Wolf but instead i realize i'm in texas. i don't really fit in here. i am average. i am not bigger than thou. i am the small town cineplex not the megaplex at grapevine mills. i'm one acre of land, not sixty eight. i can fit into the space between your bed and wall. i am the forgotten toy you find under your dirty clothes in the closet. you didn't mean to really forget about me, you just now remembered how great i was. you smile -- you need that new crest whitening toothpaste -- and place me on your bed for next time. at night, i end up on the floor...again.
it gets under my skin. like the pimple you can feel developing on your chin but it's not there yet but it will be in the morning. i wave my arms. i do my best moves. i smile, just a small one. i type my biggest and smartest sounding words. i talk about your favorite bands. your favorite poets. books. songs. foods. i suddenly like chocolate, The Swamp Thing, Frost and Limp Bizkit. your taste isn't that bad but i can't help feeling not quite at home. i feel like the cheerleader i never wanted to be. i am not blonde. i don't have blue eyes. and the rhinoplasty was too expensive.
i try again. because i realize i'm throwing myself at you and i feel like a fool. i'm not sure how to take it back. i just can't win you over. i should be happy with that. dating is not a game. boys aren't tools.
musing, i know all of this is true. and i feel bad about wanting to make out with him and you and everyone else. i know that's not me. it's not quite like regret but it's not quite not regretting. it's a soft mist of longing that makes my skin break out into a rash.
¶ 1:57 AM
|
i am jack's wasted life. i drag my feet -- one long stroll -- and i feel like a slow motion mick jagger because my sister is making clucking noises behind my back and i know i'm a chicken but it's for more than my walk. each face through the smudged windows is enlarged. big hair. big eyes. big teeth. big ears. i'm waiting for the Big Bad Wolf but instead i realize i'm in texas. i don't really fit in here. i am average. i am not bigger than thou. i am the small town cineplex not the megaplex at grapevine mills. i'm one acre of land, not sixty eight. i can fit into the space between your bed and wall. i am the forgotten toy you find under your dirty clothes in the closet. you didn't mean to really forget about me, you just now remembered how great i was. you smile -- you need that new crest whitening toothpaste -- and place me on your bed for next time. at night, i end up on the floor...again.
it gets under my skin. like the pimple you can feel developing on your chin but it's not there yet but it will be in the morning. i wave my arms. i do my best moves. i smile, just a small one. i type my biggest and smartest sounding words. i talk about your favorite bands. your favorite poets. books. songs. foods. i suddenly like chocolate, The Swamp Thing, Frost and Limp Bizkit. your taste isn't that bad but i can't help feeling not quite at home. i feel like the cheerleader i never wanted to be. i am not blonde. i don't have blue eyes. and the rhinoplasty was too expensive.
i try again. because i realize i'm throwing myself at you and i feel like a fool. i'm not sure how to take it back. i just can't win you over. i should be happy with that. dating is not a game. boys aren't tools.
musing, i know all of this is true. and i feel bad about wanting to make out with him and you and everyone else. i know that's not me. it's not quite like regret but it's not quite not regretting. it's a soft mist of longing that makes my skin break out into a rash.
¶ 1:57 AM
|
