I’m not the only one (who loves you) September 18, 2009

I love it when you break my heart. You do it so often, I may as well get used to it, huh?

And you know what’s funny? My jealousy. It’s so abject and absurd. What do I care about those other girls? It certainly doesn’t matter anymore.

I erased my myspace, only to want to cut myself a little deeper by listening to the most beautiful song I’ve ever heard, song in part by one girl who was a vision of my jealousy. But it’s somehow comforting. And to distance myself from the real myspace, I borrowed the best alias a girl could – one deceased grandmother who practically has the same birthday and name as me. God bless you, grandma. Thank you for being a party to my demise. Maybe I’ll see you soon.

“I’m not the only one…that loves you…” she sings, a tiny death in my heart, partly because, well, it’s just a beautiful song, and she’s singing about “I don’t know who you’ve been, or who you’ve been with…” and so on and so forth…but a tiny death because…well, shit, because I can’t sing like this. Or can I?

I’m not the only one that loves you. Or am I?

My tears and years certainly don’t love you, rather, they hold things against you, like geography and promises and sketches of people we might have been.

Oh! How funny it is. How truly comical is my life. How incredibly ironic and entertaining and…so funny. SO ironic is my life. That I followed you back to my own insecurities just to be left in the dust once, and then, when I finally find a voice of my own, it is tempered by Jameson, your drink, it sits alone in the dark, smoking Parliaments, listening to this song, of all songs. I’d laugh, but it’s just too sad right now.

It’s funny, ain’t it, how a broken heart just simmers, until maybe all the blood just boils away, and I’m left with the memories of life lost.

Thanks, Margie Lee Davis, for giving me your name. At least, for tonight.

And you, the destroyer of me, well, I’ve got nothing left to say to you…for now.

Remember, my sister was in a car. February 19, 2009

I myself was caught in a blonde, once. She walked with a swagger, like she knew something we didn’t. She wore stripes, like an escaped mannequin, convicted of tongues and dance moves. At least, that’s what she would’ve liked everyone to think.

I grew up hearing that blondes have more fun, that redheads are wild and adventurous, and brunettes are smart. What kind of chance did I have? So I screamed into my pillow, changed my social security number and ran away. I changed my name to something that doesn’t end in a “Y” and threw open the window and poured caution down my body like a bottle of whiskey drained of meaning and intent.

My blonde ran, and I tried to keep up, but ultimately, she was too fast for me, in those silver heels, and I tripped and snagged my face on the pavement. I laid there, wondering when I would wake up. Years later, when the yeahs became certified, when I finally realized that my symphony is dependent upon keys and not steps, when the fire inside inhaled back, I looked over and saw a mirror. The reflection was lovely.

The blonde slunk back into her bottle and I immersed with my bangs hanging over my eyes, so mysterious that even shadows don’t know what to say to me. I slip on my trenchcoat and watch over you at night, like some kind of avenger. And in the daylight, I take back my name ending in “Y” and peer over my glasses at a steady fist. The blood went back into my knuckles and everything is in its right place.

I, too, was caught in a blonde. But I unhooked myself and kept walking.

So what is your goal November 16, 2007

Twirl around with your parasol on your stage in a cage and hike your skirt up a little more so we’ll up sit up straight and pay attention, darling. Lovely. Sweetheart.

Your memory skips a crooked pace around my place and you’re just one of many bitter pills to wash down with whiskey and wishes of a way to wipe you from wakefulness.

Let’s think about the differences between you and me, the dances we’ve been dependant on and disengaged from, the deceptions we’ve denied and demanded, and the disenchantment and despair dislodged in the darkest depths of desire.

And then there’s that picture of you, invasive and vile, your hollow smile that’s haunted me for miles and even your name makes me ill with contempt and curiosity—were you a better fuck than me?

Flitter little firefly filled with flame and flash, and continue to flush out any feasibility of fulfilling anything more than fantasy. Just flutter away from me.

And the audience is captivated. Let me be the ringleader in my top hat, perched on a head crammed with images and insecurities and insanity, let me retell this tale from the beginning. I knew her name, I just never expected you to forget mine. I knew her faults, I just didn’t expect them to invade my life. I knew her lack of propriety and respect and I gleaned the effect that it’s had on you. And the effect it has on me.

Sometimes, just once in awhile, I wish I was dangerous, too. Sometimes, I act up in an effort to show you that I can. Sometimes, I can sleep at night remembering who I am and forgetting about who she was. Sometimes, I think about how I could be her, and would you like me more? I could crawl into my cage and put a fancier label on something weary. Sometimes, I don’t think about the possibility that maybe there is no difference.

Ladies and Gentlemen, what we have here is the beautiful, eloquent, fantastic display of self-destruction and self-loathing that only a girl capable of hating herself could ever admit.

Ladies and Gentlemen, I bring you the only thing I have to offer: myself.