NaNoWriMo
I didn't finish nanowrimo, I didn't even come close. But that's okay. This is the emotastic intro/first page of what I did get through. Enjoy the aptly titled Ugh Fuck Damn.
There’s times when I’m eating popcorn I let the salt that’s been left in the bottom of the bowl sit on my tongue. I wait for the saline to start burning through and it just sizzles like a pop rock on the tip of my tongue. I wait for it to dissolve and then I do it again. Sugar doesn’t have the same effect, only salt.
Maybe cocaine does the same thing. Sizzle and pop, although I’m sure once it dissolves you haven’t heard the end of it. I don’t know why I let it burn, I’m not one to analyze these things. But it gives me this strange sense of calm when I feel it. I’m the world’s safest junkie. I like the burn, I don’t like the regrets.
It’s like that time I was thirteen and I fell out of the tree in the park and broke my arm to pieces. I could’ve screamed bloody murder like the kids crowding around me. They had every right to, an awkward-looking girl in purple jeans fell from the sky. I sat in a puddle of cracked branches and just admired the white bones sticking out of my skin. I felt calm, not frantic.
How often does a person come face to face with their skeleton? It’s beautiful and bleached, and remarkable, until a doctor in a lab coat with furrowed brows tries to seal it back inside with nervous hands and dopamine. I would have liked to sit under that tree for hours and just looked at that bone, taking in the hairline fractures and marrow seeping from the middle while 7th graders tried to have me committed.
Not that I enjoy the pain, I just see it as a more abstract obstacle than a reason to cry. I think you might have been there that day.
But really that’s not all there is to me. I am much more than mild masochism and broken limbs.
Sometimes I miss people so much I want to yell. Sometimes I miss you more than I could imagine ever missing anything. Missing you physically hurts. I can feel you in the spaces between my fingers, in the scars on my feet and the follicles of my hair. I feel your hands on my forehead and your voice in my ear. I threw you up last night along with a 5th of Popov and a handful of m&ms -- the burn of vodka and sugar and your cologne is unmistakable. The abstraction is dissolving again.
It’s been 45 days since you left, but I stopped counting a long time ago. Things fall apart when you’re not looking, and just like that, they glue themselves back together. In fact, I’m being re-glued as we speak.
My limbs no longer drag, but spring to attention; my hair replaced one silky fiber at a time until I’m a porcelain doll of the girl I previously was. By tomorrow I’ll be able to stand up straight and walk out the door. I can even wipe the smirk off my face and paint on a new mouth. Right now the glue’s still drying and I’m still rolling in the bitter haze of its fumes. Tomorrow I’ll be brand new.
Is the glue sticking for you?
There’s times when I’m eating popcorn I let the salt that’s been left in the bottom of the bowl sit on my tongue. I wait for the saline to start burning through and it just sizzles like a pop rock on the tip of my tongue. I wait for it to dissolve and then I do it again. Sugar doesn’t have the same effect, only salt.
Maybe cocaine does the same thing. Sizzle and pop, although I’m sure once it dissolves you haven’t heard the end of it. I don’t know why I let it burn, I’m not one to analyze these things. But it gives me this strange sense of calm when I feel it. I’m the world’s safest junkie. I like the burn, I don’t like the regrets.
It’s like that time I was thirteen and I fell out of the tree in the park and broke my arm to pieces. I could’ve screamed bloody murder like the kids crowding around me. They had every right to, an awkward-looking girl in purple jeans fell from the sky. I sat in a puddle of cracked branches and just admired the white bones sticking out of my skin. I felt calm, not frantic.
How often does a person come face to face with their skeleton? It’s beautiful and bleached, and remarkable, until a doctor in a lab coat with furrowed brows tries to seal it back inside with nervous hands and dopamine. I would have liked to sit under that tree for hours and just looked at that bone, taking in the hairline fractures and marrow seeping from the middle while 7th graders tried to have me committed.
Not that I enjoy the pain, I just see it as a more abstract obstacle than a reason to cry. I think you might have been there that day.
But really that’s not all there is to me. I am much more than mild masochism and broken limbs.
Sometimes I miss people so much I want to yell. Sometimes I miss you more than I could imagine ever missing anything. Missing you physically hurts. I can feel you in the spaces between my fingers, in the scars on my feet and the follicles of my hair. I feel your hands on my forehead and your voice in my ear. I threw you up last night along with a 5th of Popov and a handful of m&ms -- the burn of vodka and sugar and your cologne is unmistakable. The abstraction is dissolving again.
It’s been 45 days since you left, but I stopped counting a long time ago. Things fall apart when you’re not looking, and just like that, they glue themselves back together. In fact, I’m being re-glued as we speak.
My limbs no longer drag, but spring to attention; my hair replaced one silky fiber at a time until I’m a porcelain doll of the girl I previously was. By tomorrow I’ll be able to stand up straight and walk out the door. I can even wipe the smirk off my face and paint on a new mouth. Right now the glue’s still drying and I’m still rolling in the bitter haze of its fumes. Tomorrow I’ll be brand new.
Is the glue sticking for you?