Friday, January 29, 2010


So easy to believe that more will make it better. Like creaky steps to an attic or a cellar. Thinking it will be fun to be underground, or high above. Anyplace that can distract me from the pain. Trying to make short stories from all these chapters. Because no one has time for novels anymore.

Time passes and I tell myself it doesn’t matter. The doorway isn’t going anywhere. The knock will come. Like the patience of mortar between bricks. Cold in the winter, hot in the summer, but always strong. Perhaps I’ll be prettier tomorrow anyway. Flaws fading like old photographs. Inside is where it hurts the most, not where it counts.

I’m dressing in layers, but I’m still cold.

Friday, January 15, 2010

Something at last

It has been nearly a month since my last entry . . .

I’m not sure why. There are plenty of thoughts in my head. Words disguised as beautiful songs, but the lyrics refuse to be written. Empty notes like empty shoes by my bed. The soles a scrapbook of all the places I have been. But it feels as if there is nowhere left to walk in them. A little girl on her tiptoes, trying to see over the horizon. But it’s all too far away.

Or maybe it’s simply not knowing where to begin. Taking pictures of the darkness without a flash. Nothing but torn paper and dried up pens. Frantic scribbles in desperate circles, like an author nearing the perfect ending. The lies are what makes love possible. Truth is the slippery slope. Imaginary walls closing in. A fitting prison for the stranger I have become. Pretending I don’t care because it’s just easier for everyone that way. Climbing a narrow staircase to the next floor, but nothing changes. Just more doors and broken windows. The patterns different; the melody the same.

So many bridges I could cross or just as easily burn.