Dear Blank Page,
You made me shudder. I stare at you and I see your beauty and I know I’m going to mess it up with my chicken scratch handwriting.
You made me shudder. You are only worthy of the best; I must find the innermost workings of myself to spill onto you. I must be truthful and exquisite.
You make me shudder. Everything I didn’t know I needed to say comes pouring out in inky delusions. Before I even know what’s happening you’re full to the top, and bottom.
You make me shudder.
As I mix the batter I map
the colors out in my head.
Blue and red and green and yellow
for one, plus lime and orange and rose and aqua
for another, with a little purple and neon green
for the third, thrown in for good luck.
The fourth will remain untainted.
Which is ironic considering
the man who will eat it.
I’m brought back to moments
when Nate was here and we sat
cross-legged on the floor, meticulously
squeezing just the right amount of coloring
into the otherwise virgin concoction. The bowls
rested on the green carpet and the yellow walls
surrounded our heads.
I’ve been watching Orange is the New Black. I finally caved.
I’m not finding it as enjoyable as I was expecting after all the hoopla I’ve heard from other people, but it’s not bad.
Piper’s annoying, I’m in love with Nicky, blah blah blah.
But something about the show really bugs me. They make Larry seem like the bad guy for being affected by his fiance’s incarceration.
Let me just say this right now — being the loved one of someone in prison is often like being in prison yourself. And it’s perfectly fine to feel that way.
I’ll admit I’ve only watched most of the first season, so maybe they address this. Maybe it’s not as bad as I’m making it out to be. Maybe Piper is going to be the bitch for acting all woe-is-me on Larry’s ass. But maybe not, so I’m writing this anyway.
We haven’t officially met. We probably never will. But that doesn’t mean I don’t know him.
Because I did know him, once upon a time. A time of lost boys and girls chasing what they thought were their dreams, listening to alcohol-infused lullabies, curled up with their pill-shaped blankets and promiscuity pillows.
* * * * *
Jack came home late a few weeks ago ranting and raving about how he just had to stay for a few more drinks, because he had met himself. His former self. The person he was when I first met him, in someone else’s body. Ironically, the former him was in love with a former me, too. I imagine she was blonde and busty.
But Jack didn’t pay much attention to her. The only information he could give me on me-from-the-past-in-the-present was that she was busy getting drunk and spending all her time with other guys (and girls). Sounds about right.
My skin is expelling months of sin and my brain is swelling around the lack of sanity and my body shakes like an earthquake but all I want is sleep and there are sounds all around from sirens and screaming and evil overtakes my eyes as I glance upon the ground for something, anything when a white angel flutters up to me from below so I hastily tear into it and the answer is there right in my hands, the answer to make or break or fight or flight or whatever other cliche applies to this particular situation.
I decide to make it, to fight.