Friday, October 03, 2003
I Never Said Hello
another assignment.
The only things I know how to do well are calligraphy, kissing and mix tapes. And for some reason I know she can do all these things better. I am an underground pop culture failure.
She’s smoking Camel Lights, leaning out of the fifth floor window of her apartment, staring at the heads of the people passing on the sidewalk. It’s 7am, but she’s not up early, she’s never gone to bed. Her lips smeared with clear gloss with hints of tangerine flavoring, cheeks pink like an early morning jog, eyelids covered in tints of seafoam green and lavender from the wings of butterflies. David Bowie is playing in the background and the cracks and pops of the record keep making the cat’s ears flip back in agitation. She stubs her cigarette out on the window sill.
She’s startled when the phone rings. She jumps not recognizing what it is at first.
“Hello?” She twirls the curled cord in-between her fingers.
I hang up. I only want to hear her voice. It’s soft and low, always a whisper, always calm. It reminds me of the softest parts of songs, where I readjust the volume so I can catch the slightest changes in rhythm. The Sundays I spend inside with the curtains closed, listening to The Velvet Underground, recovering from yesterday’s hangover. I examine my face looking for traces where we might be alike somehow. I know we’re not, but in my mind we’re just like sisters. Although, I would never tell her that to her face.
Her perfect smile, teeth and lips. I feel like Jan – the middle Brady, I’m lost and I can’t recognize who I am anymore. I’m just glimpses of other people’s lives. I get lost in who I want to be, and who I really am. I’d like to be like her.
She’s lost on the wings of faeries and touching the scales of dragons. She’s sleeping with rock stars, fucking them in the van, as I wait outside with a pen in my hand, disappointed that they never show. But I can’t be mad at someone that I admire. Someone I’d like to be. I just shrug and walk away, breathing out cold air, puffs from my imaginary cigarette.
I spin songs in my head, while she deejays the party. I eat toast, while she’s preoccupied with her crème brulee. I walk away, while she’s not afraid to stand. I turn my back as she faces forward. I cry and she laughs. I’m coal on the inside and she’s the sunset over Malibu.
At least I can pretend we were friends, too afraid to actually say hello.
His breath escapes in whispers, small clouds forming stars and shamrocks, in front of his lips. He nods like he knows me, but we barely kissed that one night. I’m sure he doesn’t remember the night I made her cry.
She was across the room with an empty glass in her left hand. Her mascara running down apple cheeks, her barrette hanging from loose golden threads. She watched as I sat in his lap kissing his neck, leaving bruises to show my mark. I whispered in his ear, “Dump her,” but he was too drunk to understand. He just nodded and I could feel him hard against my thigh. This didn’t feel right at the time, and just standing next to him makes me recall the taste of vomit in my mouth and the smell of cigarettes and pineapples in his hair.
After that, I couldn’t even look at her without feeling sick. There was no way to start a conversation without saying, “Yeah, I’m the one that fucked your boyfriend at that party, but I’d really like to get to know you better.” I wanted to say sorry, but there is only so much you can say with your eyes.
p.s. a girl i know offered to put this in comic form once i'm finished with it. so help me critique this, okay!
¶ 1:02 PM
|
another assignment.
The only things I know how to do well are calligraphy, kissing and mix tapes. And for some reason I know she can do all these things better. I am an underground pop culture failure.
She’s smoking Camel Lights, leaning out of the fifth floor window of her apartment, staring at the heads of the people passing on the sidewalk. It’s 7am, but she’s not up early, she’s never gone to bed. Her lips smeared with clear gloss with hints of tangerine flavoring, cheeks pink like an early morning jog, eyelids covered in tints of seafoam green and lavender from the wings of butterflies. David Bowie is playing in the background and the cracks and pops of the record keep making the cat’s ears flip back in agitation. She stubs her cigarette out on the window sill.
She’s startled when the phone rings. She jumps not recognizing what it is at first.
“Hello?” She twirls the curled cord in-between her fingers.
I hang up. I only want to hear her voice. It’s soft and low, always a whisper, always calm. It reminds me of the softest parts of songs, where I readjust the volume so I can catch the slightest changes in rhythm. The Sundays I spend inside with the curtains closed, listening to The Velvet Underground, recovering from yesterday’s hangover. I examine my face looking for traces where we might be alike somehow. I know we’re not, but in my mind we’re just like sisters. Although, I would never tell her that to her face.
Her perfect smile, teeth and lips. I feel like Jan – the middle Brady, I’m lost and I can’t recognize who I am anymore. I’m just glimpses of other people’s lives. I get lost in who I want to be, and who I really am. I’d like to be like her.
She’s lost on the wings of faeries and touching the scales of dragons. She’s sleeping with rock stars, fucking them in the van, as I wait outside with a pen in my hand, disappointed that they never show. But I can’t be mad at someone that I admire. Someone I’d like to be. I just shrug and walk away, breathing out cold air, puffs from my imaginary cigarette.
I spin songs in my head, while she deejays the party. I eat toast, while she’s preoccupied with her crème brulee. I walk away, while she’s not afraid to stand. I turn my back as she faces forward. I cry and she laughs. I’m coal on the inside and she’s the sunset over Malibu.
At least I can pretend we were friends, too afraid to actually say hello.
His breath escapes in whispers, small clouds forming stars and shamrocks, in front of his lips. He nods like he knows me, but we barely kissed that one night. I’m sure he doesn’t remember the night I made her cry.
She was across the room with an empty glass in her left hand. Her mascara running down apple cheeks, her barrette hanging from loose golden threads. She watched as I sat in his lap kissing his neck, leaving bruises to show my mark. I whispered in his ear, “Dump her,” but he was too drunk to understand. He just nodded and I could feel him hard against my thigh. This didn’t feel right at the time, and just standing next to him makes me recall the taste of vomit in my mouth and the smell of cigarettes and pineapples in his hair.
After that, I couldn’t even look at her without feeling sick. There was no way to start a conversation without saying, “Yeah, I’m the one that fucked your boyfriend at that party, but I’d really like to get to know you better.” I wanted to say sorry, but there is only so much you can say with your eyes.
p.s. a girl i know offered to put this in comic form once i'm finished with it. so help me critique this, okay!
¶ 1:02 PM
|
