Things That You Love, They Will Disappear

I'm just gonna have a little bitch-tastic rant on here right quick. It really frustrates me to see people spending their lives in a haze of intoxicants, hiding from themselves and and the world in a fog of chemicals. I'm all about doing what makes you happy, and I understand the need to cut loose from time to time, but let's be real: there are limits. I don't understand how people can look back on times in their lives, not remember them and say, "Hot damn, man, wasn't that great?" Wasn't what great? Upon what can you reminisce? I can't help but wonder, when those people need to tell themselves something intelligent, something meaningful about their lives to make it seem like it's all worth it, what will they turn to? Hmm, well that vaporizer sure made things great when I thought everyone looked ten feet tall. I love that empty bottle over there that had me hung over the toilet for several hours. What does any of that mean? From what are you people hiding? I think most people, especially those about whom I am complaining, are genuinely terrified to look in the mirror and find out that not only do they not know who it is they're seeing, but also to look and find that person hideous from the inside out.

Another thing that bothers me in all this is that I feel I'm often unwittingly dragged into other people's "Quests to Find Themselves." I know who the fuck I am, why do I have to be a part of this oh-so-enlightening journey? Why can't I--just this once--get involved with people who know and love themselves and are both capable and ready to know and love someone besides themselves? Hey? Any takers? Or any of you people wearing your asses as hats ready to man up and see yourself for what you are? I know I'm not alone when I say that I've been through the "self-discovery" business, and there's not much to know except that who you really are is almost beyond your control, so just you might as well just wake up to it. If you're an idealist (like me), people will hurt you and you will feel stupid, even though there was really not much you could do about it. If you're a romantic, guess what? Same deal. And just a heads-up: to those of you searching for your passion or calling in life, you're not going to find it in a bong or a bottle, so cut the crap, stop hiding from your fear that maybe life isn't holding anything special for you, and start actually getting up and trying new things and listening to people who've already been there.

And while I'm on this bitch fit, let me also state that I deserve more than to be just another warm body to someone. That's really what all of my complaining boils down to: people think that in their quests to find themselves, other people are objects or of less emotional/mental/psychological complexity than they are, and can therefore be used to satisfy the need to be accepted, provide contact comfort, be around when it's convenient for the quest-bound people. That's absolute shit. Not to sound conceited, but to make a fair assessment: I'm a fairly good-looking, driven, intelligent, passionate, funny girl who not only likes to get dolled up from time to time and go dancing, but also enjoys football and camping and paint fights. I know who and what I am. I've had serious loving relationships, and I've had fun, fling-type relationshits, and I'm ready for someone to appreciate me as much as I am capable of appreciating them. I am so tired of giving the best of me, just to receive the mediocre of someone else. Go big or go home, I'm sick of people half-assing it. Wander on.

Making Sense of Your Experiment

Now, I see my room and all the places you are not.

Your face—its thousand crystal facets—

shines, a far-off oasis mirage, and your voice

smiles my simple name. My low tremolo of longing

cracks short of you, replaces itself with

a shrug, the flip of a coin into a fountain—

its arcing trajectory mirroring the curve

of your clavicle, the taut skin to which

my teeth would be a ring. You are

curious, you are searching for yourself

in the salt on my lips, in the hash pipe ash;

you want to follow the trail of your nails

down my spine, find the soft secret of passion

in a glance, in a book, in the act of skin on electric

skin. I want to tell you it hurts, this illness,

my want to live inside your body, my pen stabbing

me awake at two in the morning to search my wells for

anything as true as a sleeper’s sigh in the night,

your body’s rise and constant fall betraying

you. But your flesh is thin and hungry,

Newton’s action and reaction guiding your hands

across my stomach, leading you to the vapor in my nostrils,

my effervescent love too big and flighty like a crane.

My affections are a stone in my gut.

You squint your eyes, tilt your head and see

nothing beyond your fingertips, your own skin

a barrier between us, between you and the life you dream,

my warm muscles a distant land you have yet to find

or earn by blood. The tiny down hairs on my neck

rise, salute you—Oh My Captain—and you run

your hands over your head, wave from the shore,

ever moving forward to someone else’s body.