My Secret Drawer

Black hair and intelligent eyes; such an insanity I lived with him. Six short weeks and we tore the city apart; my first explorations into a very new world. So much time spent with our clothing on the floor; slipping into darkened spaces, throwing ourselves about a crowded dance floor, sliding vinyl against vinyl, chasing dreams down alleyways. Our academic lives soon separated and the last time I saw him I was staring out the back window of a bus as he got smaller and smaller in the distance.

Brown hair and brown eyes; skin dark with a Mediterranean heritage. He was the first to own my heart and I loved him with an abandon that only the very young have. We tore each other apart in a search for some kind of understanding that we were frankly too inexperienced to have. We hurt each other on principle and cried in each others' arms. We loved as only a disaster could hating each other in the end; but we shared the early bloom of blushing cheeks regretting only the harm we could inevitably do each other. Our love was too much to last and he went off to find the children I could never give him. In the many years since that time, with the pain now a distant memory, I only hope that he found that family he was searching for and has grown happy in the intervening years.

Black hair and blue eyes; blue eyes absolutely treacherous and dangerous in his possession. So obsessed with himself that he could not see how he affected others. My returner; for some reason unable to give me up. I marched away over and over again; screamed in his face, explained with cool reason, or simply ignored his calls, but still he darkened my doorstep with a near clockwork series of reappearances. Every time his heart is broken he seeks me out and I simply can not say no to those villainous blue eyes.

Long brown hair and an accent; a voice so sweet with a mystery so deep that I could not stop my curiosity. No matter how many hours we spent talking or languishing in each others' arms I could not entirely ferret out all of his mystery (usually such a simple task for me). Flirtation became a game, a long standing battle of who would break first. All though our encounters were brief, the intensity surprised me every time and I have never forgotten him.

Light brown hair and dark eyes; a beautiful poet I stole from a darkened rain-drenched street on a fast-paced night. A short affair with all the trappings of whirling dance of flaming hearts; in and out of each others' beds as fast as we could. My life so unhinged at that point I could barely eat; he saw what I was clearly and fled before I could sink my teeth into his heart. A short game, but significant none the less for no other reason than the quick work of words I made upon his departure. You gave me a lovely poem, boy.

Blonde hair and blue eyes; that long hair slipping into his eyes as he leaned over me with a gentle smile to plant a kiss upon my lips. How could I not fall head over heels for a man who took me home to meet his dog? He pronounced his love for me shyly over the pounding speakers of a vibrating dance floor; told me tales of far off places I may never go; told me stories I did not want to hear, cooked for me naked with a silly grin on his face, kissed my shoulders to wake me up when he felt randy. We locked ourselves in a small room for a year much of it spent in the bath; raced from new adventure to new adventure and took the dog for long walks by the beach. I loved him to the point of near insanity which unfortunately was too much for his delicate sensibilities; I was a pressure on his life he simply did not need and I needed more than he could give. He is my life's single greatest regret and single most cherished memory but I will always need more.

Hair of many colours; my lover of many, many years all seeming to bleed into one another now. Over a decade we have known each other; first thrust together on a very drunken night on the pitch-black floor of my, then, best friend's bathroom; banging my head against the door. Funny how many years pass between meetings and how we just seem to pick up where we left off. We each write the other into our lives for a short affair then he wanders off to find someone he can actually love. The nights are hot, the skin sticks together, we fight each other for control but neither of us win.

Red hair; a funny man whom I met in a funny way. Our entaglements always brief, naked and unusual. No other man has made me feel like more of a whore and more adored. His explorations into my closet always amusing as I assured him it was not strange for him to pick out shoes for me to wear. Believe me, I have had stranger requests. Poisoner. The last time I saw him he was tripping over his tongue with apologies as I turned my back full of anger marching on. I doubt we will meet again.

In these years there have been others; quick encounters, names I have forgotten, a girl whose virginity I took, names I did not even bother to get, bathroom stalls in loud clubs, strange ceilings I woke up to, a queen who kissed the skin off my lips, an inexperienced young man I taught all my tricks to, quick mistakes, lively bed-mates, and a good story or two. These years have not been uneventful. I think I will close my eyes and go to sleep now.

Original Land

The circle of stones in the field across the beaten dirt road was overgrown with weeds. To get to it I had to trudge past the decaying barn with its' splintering boards and rusting nails careful to avoid stepping on an errant piece of jagged metal. The gate had collapsed sometime ago and no one had bothered to rebuild it. The neighbor's cows crazed the hillsides freely up and down the valley; my mother kept her garden firmly locked from their devastating defoliating presence but they wandered our unused pastures snuffling out tender shoots of grass.

My dog ran ahead and chased them off occasionally running into a mother cow with calf who would chase him in return with a hot snort. We made our way up the field climbing carefully through the barb wire fence, me holding it up so the dog could slip under, his belly close to the ground to avoid catching his fur in the wire. It had happened once before and I had knelt to cut him free with my pocket knife as he whimpered quietly. He sported a funny patch of shortened fur for weeks after.

We climbed up the grassy hill with stunted birch trees rustling their papery leaves in the wind at us with our passing. The dog disappeared and reappeared in the underbrush searching for ground birds to scare up into the air with a leaping bark and a wagging tail. I stopped and picked daisies along the way until I had a large bundle in my hand. I kept my eyes on the surrounding ground searching for pieces of white bone that the past winter's frost heaves had exposed to the elements. The mountain sheep would die of hunger or predators during the winter and their bones would become part of the landscape. I often searched for their weathered skulls to take home with me adding to a growing collection.

The rushing creek babbled at the bottom of the field swirling around our swimming hole where I had scraped my leg the day before. Fat grasshoppers jumped into the air as my pant legs disturbed the tall grass; their brethren calling to them in the vast expanse of the field. The sun beat down on me scenting the world with the smell of drying grass and baking mud. The original homesteader of this land settled here more than a century ago; he sold goods to the miners and raised pack mules. A tragic small pox pandemic ripped through the neighboring native tribe and he buried them in trenches because the glut of bodies were too many for individual graves. In the very early spring up in these hills you can hear child-like laughing in the distance; the ghosts of dark-haired children running through the fields.

When I reached the apex of the hill the great circle of ancient stones was waiting for me. Each boulder was covered in red lichen creeping into a different pattern on the surface. These rocks had worked themselves into this circle thousands of years ago as the earth moved and bits of the mountain above crumbled down. I scrambled atop of the biggest boulder situating myself to have a sweeping view of the valley below me; the cabin we lived in, the old shed, the broken barn, the lush belt of foliage snaking along the creek bed, the languishing fields stretching out before me golden in the sun. The dog settled onto the dusty ground in the shade of the great boulder. I closed my eyes, inhaled the dusty golden scent of this original land and felt home sink down deep into my bones.

It's Many Years Since I Fell

My secret drawer holds all the remnants of my past lovers; those letters, those mixed tapes, those photos, those little notes written on bright yellow paper. Sometimes I take the items out and turn them over again and again in my hands trying to remember the feelings that brought me to now; thin pieces of folded paper holding all the secrets of my past.

The crows are sitting on the telephone wire across the alley way. My cat watches them from the window making little clicking noises of annoyance at their tantalizing presence. They call to each other in echoing voices of a time before time. A universe unfolding held under their wings; carrying our importance in their mouths. The seeds of us planted in fertile ground; each black feather a story you have forgotten and should have remembered. My cat flicks his tail turning his golden eyes to me; such a cunning devotion. He curls in my lap and purrs soft love extending each claw as an echo to his wildness. My own little panther in my bed.

This bed, some days, seems so strange to me. There has been traffic here; the only constant being me. I open my eyes to the filmy light streaming in from the window casting long shadows down my body and onto the far wall. The wind is whipping against the window, rattling the frame and clinking little pieces of metal and glass together creating the tinkling music of my morning life. I have woken to a storm. I have woken to rain pelting the streets clean. I have woken alone. I stretch my limbs testing my ability to move; I get up and go find something to eat.

I sit in my living room and stare out at the darkening day; the dark clouds bring down the sky so you can touch it. You can feel it sliding over your skin; dampening your hair, matting it to your head. The fall has come and my tomato plants have died waiting through the long winter months for the spring to touch their leaves and waken their cold slumber. The fruit is rotting. The vines have slackened their hold on the world; I settle into winter like a warm bath enjoying the dark cold. I always was a strange girl.

I stare out the window and think of you. I wonder if it was love or some semblance there of that led me to opening my door on the little world I fight to keep people out of. I write the world falling and you write it in action. I recall confession; your arms around me searching for... something. Some sort of truth I could never offer. "Sometimes you look so sad..." I know. I have sadness written into my cells; a DNA-copy of my father's insanity and my mother's strength and everything she gave up to have that strength. I like to think that my body is somewhere you can find comfort; in the softness of skin and understanding voice. I am, however, beginning to realize that no one offers me that comfort in return. I have spent a lifetime filling the empty spaces in the souls of others; I have been offering pieces of myself to stop the tears from falling from your eyes but when it comes to be my turn to seek comfort you are already up and on your way to the door. "Have a good night! It was nice to see you!" A kiss goodbye, and the door shuts and I fumble with what is left.

I am left here with my dieing tomato plants and the crows calling their names down to my cat; both of them knowing the universe before time began. They turn their eyes on me, tell me their animal love; I go to my secret drawer and drop one more memento into a world burning with a heart that refuses to learn.

You Held Me Under

Strange now, that you would come here to find me. I was being so very quiet, trying not to move lest I create a noise that would turn those eyes on me. Those glittering eyes; I have never been sure if it's love or malice that stares back at me.

And I remember. I did not forget. I remember your hands on my skin, sliding up and down my side. In that moment I felt like gold. Golden like the dawn all these people are moving towards. Seeking out light in a dark world not unlike little rats scurrying towards oblivion. A reverence for all those dirty little things and all those dirty little words. You felt like a sexual superhero. Funny, I felt like a murderer. I felt the walls bleeding. I felt guilty. I felt demonic. I felt a familiar darkening inching into my skin as the moon was blown out like a birthday candle on this sweetly delicate cake of sky and frosting clouds.

I looked in the mirror and saw my hair flare out to a crown of fire. I ripped open the window and howled at that starless sky with all that fire surrounding me. She whispered to me, "I knew it. I knew it all along. You are a vampire. Some sort of evil walking the earth. What are you taking from us?" Am I so vampiric? You seem to think I am. At least I think you do. Maybe I am confused. And then it screams inside of me and I break into a million pieces wandering through this world with an emptiness that can only be reflected in a vampiric want feeding on torn hearts and forced words. My bloodied feet pound the ground as I race down the back alleys searching for you; searching for anybody. When did the world get so empty? If you could only see the beast I have become.

Back in this room I lay myself down on that big bed slowly wrapping my body in soft silken sheets as I cradle my mind in the memories of strange lovers who made me happy with their tenderly spoken lies. Until they made me unhappy with their unwanted truths. Every wound collapses in on itself creating an individual universe of gasping winking stars. I am a black hole; drawing everything near me, into me and tearing it to pieces. You see, each of you moved so easily onto those better things; those better things than me. It is not so easy for me; I am trapped in this cell, screaming at the walls, waiting for the night to fall so I can sneak out and feign normalcy among these crowds of happy giggling sycophantic lovers staring glassy-eyed at each others mouths, hungry for freedom. I hate them.

I hate the day. I hate strangers touching me. I hate this pain. I hate talking. I hate these interlopers. I hate these empty rooms. I hate your secrets. But I love you and I guess that counts for something... I just don't know what it is.

A Textual Romance and a Passive Suicide

He plied me with words, each more sweet than the last. Every syllable tasted of pomegranate juice slipping down my chin and sticking to my lips. My fingers were coated in the slickness of it; I licked each digit savoring the tactile response to the languishing touch. Velvet tongue to softest skin. Words like hands sliding over me, into me, through me.

He wrote me pages and pages of text; miles of cursive verse extolling every little crevice of our twisting relationship. The pages wrapped around me; curling me in a blanket of intellectual dalliances. His words slipped down my throat scratching all the way; filling up my belly with swimming letters of jumbled importance. I put my fingers down my throat and tossed them back up.

I stand in my kitchen with bottles of little words taking over the shelves like an invading army. They spill down the counters and puddle on the floor creating a mess; piling up in the corners, filling up the sink. I search through the clutter for milky jars of potent pills instead; something to quiet the chittering and chattering of his textual romance. I down onetwothreefourfive and onetwothreefourfive more; slide to the ground and cradle sentences of longing and love to my chest. When those words turned bitter and the pomegranate turns to rot; I poison myself in little ways with the love of a troubled man.

When I lie down, close my eyes and commit my little passive suicide, I sigh terribly. This never meant anything and words will never explain it.

The Writer's Confession

I see you eying your pants lying in a crumpled heap on the floor. You have been lying in my arms waiting for the moment to get up, collect those crumpled things, spout a few pleasantries and quickly exit out my door. All these men, eying their fucking pants on my floor.

Funny, I don't remember wishing for this. I mean, I know I created her... Created this version of myself... But I created her for an artistic outlet; to be a strong image, an interesting examination of my sexuality. I never meant for her to become this. I never meant to be a sexual fantasy (or maybe I did but not in this way). I can not exist in that static form; she is only a part of me (admittedly the most perfected part) but still only a part. The real me is much messier; comes with many more complications. I bleed, spend some nights doubled over in pain, cry at silly things, write to the point of obsession, isolate myself from others, some days I can't even leave my apartment; I'm neurotic, creative, demanding, violent, intelligent, insular, self-loathing and self-loving all at once. Those complications shouldn't be so hard to deal with; we are all complicated monsters, aren't we?

This is the one part of my life I never got right. Most days I feel like opting out; feel like giving up even at this young age. My body turns on me, cripples me with sickness/pain and it makes me feel like turning up the volume on my isolation. The less I have to do with people the less I have to feel. Or more aptly, feel for them. Anyone who makes the unrecommended move towards my arms soon finds the fire burning behind my eyes; I do not want to be this insane so maybe turning off/ turning away from human contact is the better option.

My mother was 15 years older than I am now when she made that decision. She turned her back on the world with purpose and created a home for herself in her little cabin in the woods far from the implications and interruptions of the rest of the world. She tells me, "The only thing that makes me depressed is other people, so I stay away from other people..." I feel like I am on that same path; like I'm arriving at that station even earlier with no children to link me to the world (I never wanted them; I still don't)... Is it my DNA that makes me like this; my mother and I; alike but not alike. Funny, I feel connected to her but so disconnected from everything else.

Has this confession meant anything? Probably not. There will still be crumpled pants on my floor but with increasingly less frequency; I will still feel the twist and pull of amplified emotions, I will still hear thoughts from your head before you speak them, my body will continue it's revolt, and I will still stand in this doorway, stark naked, and wish passion was for something better than this...