Diary of a Human (3 page)

It is never enough. The puzzle is never completed and instead, cast aside; coffee stains and bent edges from the misuse an
d pain of never quite fitting.

I am . . . so tired.

I am a crumpled bit of paper. Creases crying to be smoothed after the exhausting abuse that comes with being a girl. You smooth the tired, tear streaked creases with the evenness of your voice. You, love, have the power to wipe clean the slate, wipe clean my face from the wrinkles of time and worry.

2.2//I feel

I feel. What do I feel? I feel the icy chill of a long winter that only those who experience the consequences of freedom. I feel the absence of a warmth long gone and hard to recall. I feel alone.

The dancing figures on the television screen offer no comfort. They have their own demons to fight and cannot be troubled with these of my own. A naked bed, empty eyes, an
d a smile to hide my reality.

Fingers strumming me, playing me like an unheard well-rehearsed melody. I sit still during your concerto, my own private recital. I sit still full of fear, unmoving lest you strike like the coiled and prepped phallus. You are a mountain lion in a skirt and I am your prey. I hear the words I have never shared spilling past my foolish lips, and wish them dead as your unaffected heart. I am a player in this game you play, my suitcases light and free from burdens.

2.3//Love. Right.

love.

i'll tell you all about love. how much time do you have?

love creates fools. love makes women spout biting, callous, bitter words. i just hung up love. oh yes, i'll tell you ALL about love. what love does to people stronger and weaker than i. what impure and unadulterated love does.

but i don't want to waste your time. time is too precious to be spent on such frivolities.

because you are stoic, you are reserved. you don't live blindly, wildly, succulently. you don't eat mangoes naked in bed. life is all blacks and whites for you. careful not to spill bleach on your colors, lest your structured world tumble.

love has nothing to do with control. or. everything to do with control. a lack of control. but i wouldn't know. i've never been there, right?

2.4//p
atience

I have conquered the unattainable art of patience, holding you in my arms. I will not pretend it has always been easy to resist, to steel my pounding heart and even my ragged breath. But I know I must not go there, must not make that move, for you are not mine...yet. The chessboard has been set many lifetimes ago and I await the next move of your Queen; or shall I become your pawn -- just another pawn in your tailored game of life. The postman brings no joy.

I have stood solid and solo on a lakeshore, witnessing whipping wind and churning tides. The wind-born sand bites my cheeks and stings my tears, but there is no comfort between the hole in my heart and the emptiness of my thoughts. You are elusive as ever even when wrapped within these broken branches of mine. Arms that cannot hold you, cannot contain wings meant for constant flight.

But despite this knowledge, I remain here in my eternal yearnings, pining like the frailest of willows.

2.5//body m
aps

I can still taste you on my lips. Still remember the bruising, needy, smashing of mouths and feminine hips. My arms and joints will ache in the morning, but for the moment nothing exists outside of tangled
tongues and entwined fingers.

My body remembers jutting hips, slender stomach, chiseled ribs, tender breasts, defined collar bone, succulent neck, gentle cheek, again to that mouth I crave. Thick, full lips that pout a nameless annoyance, plush pink tongue that
teases and flames this hunger.

Poetry in flesh. Deliciously painful.

And when we are still, I am drunk on your skin. Like a desperate child, I clin
g to you, s
troking away silk tendrils shadowing deep aqua of oceans within your smoldering gaze.

My skin is covered with you. You come in like the sea's chaotic tide and eat away at the footprints of the past. Your soft sweet scent blankets me like a snowstorm
,
and I
hesitate to leave this place and
instead remain in this lover's bed for fear of losing a piece of you.

2.6//h
er

I know I should be guarded, more reserved
,
lest I become trapped in your fire and burn from our passions. No one can stand in this flame and part unaffected, unsoiled, unscathed.

I creep into your bedroom undetected with the stealth of experience. You sleep so soundly I fear to curse dreams and the rhythmic rise and fall of exposed breast. The early morning sun forms a halo of golden glitter off the soft curls that frame your features. Lips sealed tightly with sleep that beg for attention when rose colored
tongue meets that of my own.

I am there, in this moment slinking slowly over bare warped wood, each step more dangerous than the last. Rocking toe to heel toward my slumbering goal. What I would do...if I were not cemented in my cowardice. To crawl between linen folds and touch you.

Savori
ng, worshipping. Softly. You.

I stand here, silent, my feet afraid to make a sound.

2.7//s
quint

I
f there truly i
s no timeline for love, then I have
been lied to all my life. Who would dare doom
another to such a joyless fate?
And thus is my strangling, suffocating existence, this timeless melodrama of stifled emotion that plays on like a skipping recording
. B
ecause
I have been raised to fear the sun; do not grow weary of me when you beg for me to join you in the warmth of its rays.

The outside world slips away when I am locked within the deep pools of your gaze. I am drowning, never to resurface from you. I am a wave of emotions, washing, churning within your ocean
's tumult.

And then
there exists only silence
,
and I am acutely aware of my labored breathing and rapidly pulsing heart.

What you do to me.

If I knew better; if I were wiser; if I had a
tangible, solid, fleshy answer,
then maybe I wouldn't choke on the words I long to say.

2.8//c
ontested geography

I never did like geography. War torn countries, changing borders, unpronounceable capitals and innumerable dead seas. Ever changing as the cycles of mother moon. And now I'm haunted by geography; the distance that tears us apart.

Tears fall and I long to be the only one to comfort you, kiss the salty offenders away and curse them to take their leave of you. There is no pain when you are near, sav
e the ever present geography.

You are angelic, sacred, blessed, religiously divine. Your wings have been bruised from numerous spirals from your home in the heavens, but when I am with you I feel
our joint return to that sky.

The lobsters in this tank claw my ankles and beg my return to a watery grave of stoicism, but on your wings I am saved. I can't go back, never go back, teetering on the thin line of my salvation. Gentle words of love and encouragement remove my blinders. I onc
e was blind, but now can see.

You are the idol I worship and make the gods mad with jealousy at such a display of devout devotion. I want no other religion than you.

2.9//a woman sits

A woman sits in darkness, squinting as the embers burn down to calloused finger tips, biting but painless. But nothing flames like the feelings in her heart. Nothing burns like this unforeseen fire in her soul. Her head is heavy from paper factories and traffic and far-off train whistles corrupt the silence of this moment.

A woman sits in darkness, an eerie glow from a computer past its prime, waiting for a message, waiting for a sign to know she is loved. She never has enough words herself; can never verbalize the billions of thoughts and emotions swimming through the space between her ears.

But the prose keep drip, dripping off her fingers, overflowing the page with words of Want and Desire for an angel just out of grasp.

2.10//r
estless flight

I feel restless, crazy, mad, unnerved, moving without stopping, craving, desperate for the touch denied. The body cannot live on bread alone. I hear her voice and it is never enough. I see her picture and it moves me; I am always moving. To see that smile, hear that laugh, touch soft tendrils between nervous fingers, drink in her scent and feel her body laying next to mine.

My world has been altered these past few weeks, priorities shifted and futures unseen. The crystal ball, once so clear is now fogged over with the haze of a love that burns deeper than any before. The lines of my hands are in constant motion and even the wisest of gypsies is per
plexed when fists unclench.

I cannot find my peace nor seek any rest. The wheels are always moving and the voices never silence. White walls bring no comfort as I bounce from moment to moment, a ball of teeming energy. Potential cannot be lost nor gained. If I change these walls high around my fortress than perhaps I will escape, but the laundry piles up and the
holy men chant their praises.

I creep out to the farthest branch and sway in time with the blowing wind. I will not grow old in this place, but these wings ar
e new and unsteady in flight.

I am too soggy for flight, but it is nearly dawn.

2.11//my h
eart

This is my heart and this is my plea. I kept this fragile muscle locked fast in an impenetrable box of Doubt and Cynicism. It grew fat from the lack of fresh air, undernourished forgetting the sensation of sunlight. Shrouded with Fear it lay dormant, un
-
beating, unfeeling for many lifetimes. This heart is an heirloom to be passed on to my descendants, unblemished and un
-
bruised.

But you have snapped the lid, you have shaken the contents with a jolt and I am clinging for my life. Now the blood flows fresh and freely and each incision cuts deep to fleshy tissue and miles of nerve endings. I am bathing in my blood and the warmth I feel may soon grow cold with the stench of death.

But I pray you now to mind these fragile contents; for I know not what I'd do with a broken heart.

2.12//c
atholic guilt

When I learned to tell time I forgot how to listen.

At 8:4
3 I began the process of dying.

How will you measure your life when it comes that time? My scale is overflowing with cups of tears instead of tea, spilt instead of shared, reserved for only one rather than enjoyed by many.  Forgive me, Father, for I have sinned.

I sit with heavy head bent in heavy hands and watch as the teardrops fill the inner concave of spectacles meant for a woman much older and wiser than I. If I were that woman maybe it wouldn't hurt so much.

My throat is raw from impassioned cries and words that will never fix leaking wounds. I close the door so the strangers won't see that it sometimes pours in my world too. Umbrellas are useless.

These walls echo my pain, but the words fall stagnant and stale before they can sneak out of cracked window and find their freedom and life in the bubbles above.

I would give up my teeth for a cup of tea and a warm smile from you, even knowing I could not return the favor. Every minute that ticks by perks my attention as I am a fool to believe it's a message from you.

At 8:45 I forgot to breathe and for that minute I forgot my name. I've bitten my tongue out of fear so many times during the conversations that my teeth now find happy home buried within the delicate pink flesh.

Where is my drug, where is my placebo to this catholic guilt? Father, forgive me; I do not know what I've done. 

2.13//shouldhaves

I ask all the questions for which I do not want answers. I take a leap backwards so she can breathe again. But, as she is breathing, whose lips are pressed against that mouth I once coveted as my own?

I jumped blindly into this v
at of undistinguishable love.

I
should have listened to my mother.