My Reliquary
FUCK!
I hate you and your destructive, immature fears, except I love you and I want to kiss it all better. Why are you punishing me so much? Don't you know that being away from you is punishment enough? I had something eloquent all pent up about the feelings it stirred in me to watch rain roll in off the Smokies, silhouetted in the skyline of a generic city that I don't recognize, from the 17th floor of a generic hotel, in a generic room, from my perch on a bed that has about the warmth of a hospital bed, and people will fuck this place over yet! Or fuck themselves over. Or both. They can never be satisfied with just fucking over a little. It has to be a lot. It has to be everything. Annihilation or bust. I'd like to bust those fucking walls in your mind. But I am, as ever, a people, too. But I'm good people. I am loyal people. Honorable. I love these things about myself. And I wish you loved them, too. But you're there and I'm here and I dropped my goddamn fucking phone in the toilet, which is better than a gravy boat, but only marginally. And you're the one that is stuck?
Oh, and I only have one cigarette left and I'm going to go smoke it now, before I reach for my revolver.
I look at the moon and it makes your name ring and I look at the sun and it lilts the same thing and I don't know how to make it all right, alright? I can't help it that we come together so hard it breaks both our hearts but I know that you leave me spitting my teeth and that when you said you would call me later, and you promised, that it was only a weak maybe, just like everything with you: is just my pretty black inner ache of a possibility that you *just might* want to do something with me, or say something nice to me, or maybe even speak to me sincerely and not snidely or, just whatever because when I sleep, I hear you breathe, coming from all directions in my dreams and the rumble of jake brakes on the interstate outside my window sounds like our song.
I know: what part of broken don't I understand? The old love letters you saved that made me want to tell that ghost of a dog that is still chasing its car to go back home with what heart it has left. But I've lived for thousands of years with that, like people did before cell phones. But I just always set those things aside and let it get skinned shut, until its ripped open again, because I know that it has all been worth it, even just that one first night, that made me weep when the morning caught up with us. And to think I thought I'd never see you again.
See, I've seen the wires and I still think it's magic.
I hate you and your destructive, immature fears, except I love you and I want to kiss it all better. Why are you punishing me so much? Don't you know that being away from you is punishment enough? I had something eloquent all pent up about the feelings it stirred in me to watch rain roll in off the Smokies, silhouetted in the skyline of a generic city that I don't recognize, from the 17th floor of a generic hotel, in a generic room, from my perch on a bed that has about the warmth of a hospital bed, and people will fuck this place over yet! Or fuck themselves over. Or both. They can never be satisfied with just fucking over a little. It has to be a lot. It has to be everything. Annihilation or bust. I'd like to bust those fucking walls in your mind. But I am, as ever, a people, too. But I'm good people. I am loyal people. Honorable. I love these things about myself. And I wish you loved them, too. But you're there and I'm here and I dropped my goddamn fucking phone in the toilet, which is better than a gravy boat, but only marginally. And you're the one that is stuck?
Oh, and I only have one cigarette left and I'm going to go smoke it now, before I reach for my revolver.
I look at the moon and it makes your name ring and I look at the sun and it lilts the same thing and I don't know how to make it all right, alright? I can't help it that we come together so hard it breaks both our hearts but I know that you leave me spitting my teeth and that when you said you would call me later, and you promised, that it was only a weak maybe, just like everything with you: is just my pretty black inner ache of a possibility that you *just might* want to do something with me, or say something nice to me, or maybe even speak to me sincerely and not snidely or, just whatever because when I sleep, I hear you breathe, coming from all directions in my dreams and the rumble of jake brakes on the interstate outside my window sounds like our song.
I know: what part of broken don't I understand? The old love letters you saved that made me want to tell that ghost of a dog that is still chasing its car to go back home with what heart it has left. But I've lived for thousands of years with that, like people did before cell phones. But I just always set those things aside and let it get skinned shut, until its ripped open again, because I know that it has all been worth it, even just that one first night, that made me weep when the morning caught up with us. And to think I thought I'd never see you again.
See, I've seen the wires and I still think it's magic.
posted by martyr in moderation at 7:55 PM
