Prose

Browse: Title, Author or Date

about a boy, interrupted

written by: angelpixiedust

trying to write.
i think its easier to write characters with cigarettes. they're standing there, it's instant drama, there's inamorrato in the air, she's smoking in between sentences, in between punctuations. smoking comas and question marks. smoke rising, falling.

so the other character is drinking coffee. voice low and murmured, unwilling to break this air. raising your voice is so hard in print, it makes things so definite. a character murmuring is more attractive and easier. angry characters don't fair well, they give too much away. low voices, they can be subtle and pointed. never giving anything away without a fight. coffee cooling, caffeine kicking in. black, white, sugar, latte, frappe, chai. sipping, in between voices, like fidgeting, like a focus, holding onto something warm and constant, in between the hum of indefinite verbs and consonants.
heartbreak,
heard in a whisper,
sounds like it should wound less, graze even.
but silences or worse,-- that one one thing in the silence, that one word, half-said, that has killed me more times than any violence. i've been mugged, once, but a boy didn't call two, three times a week, a month, my years, and i was gagging for air on my bathroom floor, doubled up, london's knife crime in my stomach.

what else is there?

a story about a character, a break? a girl, with nothing.
starting all over again, maybe. a lie.
or the truth, but from a different ending
blonde hair, halos around her when she sleeps, like burning out cigarettes splayed, a humming glow.
an addiction to everything. nothing was left unpicked at, no scar was left unpeeled. everything was a source of pain and pleasure.

but what else is there?

his voice. like the rumble of a distant train --
a train pulling into a station, into your station, finally.

you wanted to press your ear to that voice, listen to it like seashells.
a sound so warm and constant, to hold onto, cling to, in between the silences.


dreaming of driving cars, but cant drive, not in dreams even. swerving too close to the edges, too long to slow down. hitting people, i don't even have dream insurance. 7 million she wanted, for hitting her bumper.
i said, sue me, please. take everything.
it's all owed to someone else anyway.

dreamt of him being strangled.
he was there in some place... a cafe, a shop... not with me. i was sitting above, watching, in the middle of my other dream scenarios (superman was involved, and clark kent) to find him leading a dream life below me (so weird to know that life goes on in your dreams; the way it does in the world, dream people using credit cards and late for trains, smoking cigarettes and drinking bad coffees, who knew? where do they flee to when you're awake?). getting aggressive with some guy. watching, not doing anything, rapt, watching, waiting for the cars to crash. the guy putting his hands around him, choking him, really. and im watching, and enjoying it, i really am. so good to watch someone in pain, after your pain, so fulfilling. thinking, if he needs me, he'll ask. someone else should get him. hes nothing to do with me. hes not mine. watching, for ages, finally, i declare, i know cpr. and i go down and he's still breathing, and i think, i dont, i dont really know cpr. still choking for air, and i watch, standing over him, like a third person, a narrator now, saying, lie on your side, clear your airways, and he sees through me, those same blued eyes bluer in dreams even, listens but i could by anyone. even in my dreams, im not there.

the girl, a brown headed agnys dean. she looks poised in photos, self assured (oh no, i know a dirty word)
tall next to him. which fits, he needs length. he needs someone who seems more definite. in thailand, teaching orphans english. how perfect could it get, how insanely vindictive.
im the redhead, bruised eyed and tiny.
all awkward and uncertain. and rude, sometimes, honest. because it hurts too much not to be.
she looks like she knows, has some idea.

oh, but i would pay to be graceful. to not have bruised, scratched knees.
a destination, a road, a path -- even to here. somekind of way.
some length, some geography.
i would pay good money.
to want to be a musician, to want to be a writer, a scientist, a lawyer, an art student, a fashion designer.
to want, FUCK, to long, to dream. to K.N.O.W. how to charge yourself
the iron in your blood, like iron fillings, tamed by a destination, a pull, a magnet.
everything can be explained around it. a sketch that you can ink over, paint over, with sure strokes.

im a sketch, in charcoal, too much defined already, cant undraw it, cant erase.
lines and lines and lines, all over lines, thumb smudged, smeared.

they painted me in an art class once. i was so small on paper.
nmy favourite was by a middle aged guy, my back to him, just shadows and light.


it was like sitting next to a fire. it kept you warm, but a spark, and you'd be cinders.

he'd make rules and then break them, little santa-claus lies he didn't even believe in.

he says he loves me sometimes, my best friend, my super pretty untouchable bestest gay friend, and it's always so raw, so real, that it makes me want to cry.
can't explain. so terrifying, tobe loved.
so final.
it shakes me into life, and,
he says, no, i mean it.
because he knows me.
and i kiss him.
i press my fingers over his mouth.
please keep it in.
if you say it out loud, you'll kill it, like killing wishes after you've thrown pennies into wells
you can't ask for things out loud
please stop

i'm a love atheist. agnostic. hindi. in love in a past life, in a future life, not this one.

i love in spurts. the way people throw up, after drinking too much, i love in small, tiny explosions.
all over everything.
a big, ugly, mess that needs to be cleaned up afterwards.

watching him at night. the bottle of empty wine on the window sill, from a tiny italian village where she'd once fallen in love, castellanetta. the cold air in. cold air all over. unable to sleep. him like a forgotten bundle of clothes, splayed. an old pair of boxers, so old. never seen him in any others. and he's so distant.

pressed up against him, trying to find the warmth there. searching, pressing. a groan and he turns over, away. his body a question mark beside. staring at the cieling, at the floor, at the old, old, duvet. fucking freezing. fucking lonely. tempted to go home, it would be so easy. but its like lead, the oxygen in her lungs. this is as close, maybe. as close as he'll let her, the wrong girl. and there's something about him, about how crumpled he is, there's something warm beneath, somewhere, she can feel it in him, see it in him, behind his eyes, sometimes, but it's always so far, pressing, and never finding it.
he jokes and jokes and jokes
but not for me, not for me,
a scar on him, shiny smooth skin, interrupting the rough, the cat-like-hair on his back, boy interrupted, the youngness, the blondeness, the blue eyes. he was in a coma (punctuating, separating two different thoughts in one sentence) for two, three weeks as kid. a chunk of your life here, summed up by a stretch of skin. wanting a tattoo, but that is so much more explanatory. there's time, scratched across my right hand now 24years of time, a stiff thumb, lost against a silent boy. my geography, my night constellation.
wanting to shake him, make him choke out words. something solid. this night is so empty and he's a silent question mark -- the worst kind, an unsaid question, an unanswered one.
in the morning he says, "why could't you sleep?"
"thinking about crap., my life. crap," you can try to laugh
and nothing else,
but there's nothing
he doesn't have any questions after all.

i laugh in all the wrong places, punctuating all the wrong jokes,. things are funny, but maybe only to me, in my magic eye, life.

and i'm still paying for it, paying for an empty night with an empty boy and an empty girl, like paying for a car that you won't own, you don't even know how to drive. paying for something that won't belong to you
whatever happened to only emotional debts.

and they have everythingeverythingeverything.
what more can i do?
pay their rent?
life insurance?
what does the universe want me to do?
re-arrange molecules,
shadows & light

strip, and strip, and strip?
because i will. i am.

i want you to see that this is it.
this is all i have.
(but what else is there?)

i want to wrap myself, in wax and feathers
and, fly
too close to the sun.

Comments:

Want to Comment?

Please Log-In to Post a Comment

Log In

Forgot your password?
Not a Member? Register!