Martin is afraid
his heart will burst like it always does
when he gargles
face up to the light
mouthwash choking him, tonsils so
cold they burn.
And every second more the alcohol expands
until it shoots through his nose and down
his throat and out his lungs (making gaping holes)
and he cannot take this drowning anymore—he will not!
No one needs clean mouths!
Stream of consciousness is a technique common to most writers–it’s also the scariest. Who wants to risk putting on paper what they really feel? I know it makes me uncomfortable, and like many others, I tend to mentally edit my thought process before I pen it. But I thought it might make me go to sleep, show some of the things I’ve been ruminating on, and help demonstrate SOC.
Forgive the lack of grammar.
It is dark in this room where I sleep with the roommate who told me she thought period blood was gross. for some reason this makes me hurt and ashamed, as i am a woman and i am proud. where is the tent, where women go and commemorate this sacred ritual? in the trashcan, where it is wrapped up and flushed and forgotten. screw you all who ask their women and girls to cover up their blood. it is us! it is us and our body and why should we hide? if there is a god, ‘he’ made us this way to give life. yet somehow i am ashamed like i did something wrong, and if i did should i apologize? i say sorry too much. i say sorry for the blood and the sex without love and the love that is greedy and everything i do bad. or think i do bad. sometimes i do not see the sun, only concrete as i stare down, too ashamed to look up. climb the trees. i should do that. then i would see everything like i used to. i knew so much pain when i did, but all things seem stupid or meaningless when you are looking out from a tree you spent years climbing and knowing…
i want to cry, but i don’t know how. i want to feel badness so i can feel empty and then i can fill myself up with joy. where is joy. i guess it is in other people and i find it there occasionally. but mostly thats disappointment. or hurt. i don’t want to be hurt anymore. it’s like hands recoiling. when you are hurt too much, you don’t know. and it becomes easy to walk alone eat alone read read take in and never be with people never sit down with a best friend and giggle or hold hands with anyone.
this coughing is taking away my soul. here she moves, my roommate, and makes a noise in her sleep. i try not to wake her but what can i do with this soul sucking going on? she never speaks. only murmurs.
I’ve never had a relationship that lasted more than a month. But I think that’s about to change.
Over the weekend, I partied. I drank. I danced. I toked (once). In essence, I kind of did the whole college experience, sans the horrible rap music in the background. And I met this really nice guy. Brad is into hard rock, baseball, and marijuana legalization (for obvious reasons). He’s the most fun I’ve had in ages. But if I’m not making out with him, I don’t know what to do or say.
The face lowers. The mouth dries. All train of thought drifts away, like the smoke in which he engulfs himself. Even now, his smell is still in my clothes.
“What do you want from this?” he asked me, my hand in his as he drove me back to my door.
“I don’t know,” I replied. “I have no clue.”
But that was a bit of a lie. I did want something. I wanted security, happiness, friendship. I wanted conversation that didn’t feel like small talk. I wanted people to say, “Oh, there’s Chloe’s boyfriend, Brad. Aren’t they so cute?”
I can’t say that to him, though. It seems too much, too soon.
People are afraid to be vulnerable. They are terrified of it, and so they hide in distraction and misrepresentation. The heartthrobs of television and media are tough and merciless. They don’t give a fuck about anyone, and dat’s cool. But no one tells you vulnerability is beautiful. No one says that the bared neck receives more, be it kisses or scars. Heartthrobs get more action, but the soulful are the real winners.
I used to think that if I was a good girl and waited for my fantasy, I would get it. But it doesn’t work that way. You have to work for what you want, and he is what I want.