a new target

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it's just that time of year, i suppose.  i want to cut my hair.  i want to throw all my clothes out.  i want to turn the corner and see your face.  or i want to click the Buy Now button on a new plane ride.

i'm unsatisfied.

listening to cyndi lauper, dancing in the mirror, one of those fine, fluid evenings when i stand and stare myself down in the mirror, tear after tear, so tearfully, because the lyrics are so perfect, so sharp; pierce my heart, make my eyes drop their salt, and when i look at my face in the mirror all i see is how damn ugly it is compared to yours...

is that love?


there are the moments, sad and long, when we, in the dark, scramble against feeling so separate; we scramble to be understood; so fervently, we 'll fall in love with anything or anyone...  and maybe you found me at the exact right moment.  or maybe you're just that damn fine.  or maybe this is something that all my instinct cry for.  maybe i need a new pain?  hasn't it always been that way?

and so i take these pictures of myself and i'd like to think it's art.  i'd like to think it's more than just a shit show. all i know is the absolute SHIT being good got me.  why not piss against the wind and wear my filth as if it were silk?

it's just that time of year.

i love looking at myself when i'm a mess: a wreck of tangled hair and smeared eyeliner, lipstick on my chin and sweaty skin.  i touch my reflection in the mirror and smile.  i give myself a kiss and dance to the next love song alone.  i slip my hand into my polka dot panties and pretend my hand is yours.  i watch myself in the mirror and pretend the eyes on me, on my skin, on my shuddering, my quivering body belong to you.  i mouth the words i would say to you if it was your hand  in my hair.  i mouth the words and i gasp.  i gasp and i crawl and i writhe as if the night were endless, as if the album had no end, as if the love we knew weren't flawed, as if i could be the cure your heart longs for, as if my eyes could build a home for you in their soft blue reservoir, as if my voice could offer something aside from the cool note i play...

all my infinite lies: my collected stare.



i need a haircut and a new jacket.

i want to leave all i own on the curb.

it's just that time of year.



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