bedtime stories: deleted girls won't love

“Hey there, Frankie. You’ve managed to find me three times in the last two weeks. I am impressed.”

My lips held their ground but I couldn’t stop my eyes from smiling. It was the dorky slant of his shoulders that got me every single time. It would only appear when he was getting ready to speak. It was as if one side of him kept trying to fall off. There he stood with a smirk, blocking the light, blocking the way out.

“You are too predictable, sweetie. The hard part is figuring out the days you won’t leave the house. You have managed to fall off the radar of so many people; it is getting harder and harder for me to track you down. For a while there I honestly thought you have finally left the country.”

I had stopped dreaming of leaving long ago. I had stopped making plans; I didn’t have any more wishes left in me. I was merely killing time. I was merely keeping myself busy enough to pass as a human being. He didn’t know that though. The girl he remembered had a new wish for every hour. The girl he knew dreamt of train rides and sea voyages. He knew her well. They would sit on street corners for hours and she would tell him of the adventures she craved. He liked the way she started dancing as she dreamt of strange lands and strangers. He didn’t like her hunger for the unknown, but he liked her. He had told her one late night that he would give her everything she wished upon if she could only manage to sleep by his side at nights. He had asked her to alter the dreams a little, he never said give up; he never wanted her to stop dreaming. She had kissed him on his jawline with a little tongue; “you are too delicious” was all she had said. 

That girl was gone, that girl was lost; I had erased her, and he didn’t know.

“When are you meeting your friends?” he asked, after he kissed my cheekbones and pushed the hair from my eyes. He didn’t retreat back, and I felt the wind of the words as he spoke. I had to look up to make eye contact, I had never managed to get used to the size of him. Built like a gladiator; he had the softest touch. I pulled away, I could feel the blood rushing to my cheeks and I didn’t understand why I was blushing. “I am not. I’ll go home soon.”

He squinted, I heard the muscles move. I had my eyes pinned on the table. My hands were in my lap, and my body was trying to fold in on itself. 

“What do you want Frankie?”
“You do know that my name is not Frankie, don’t you?”
“I am the one who put you together and woke you through a lightning storm. Don’t you remember coming to me with your body parts in a basket? Night after night I stitched you up, vein by vein. Don’t you remember our bloody nights?”
“I remember everything about us.”
“What’s your name then?”
“My name is Frankie.”
“And who am I?”
“You are the love of my life.”
“Wrong answer. You lose."

He smiled again. That smile always made me question reality. He had the stance of a mighty warrior and the smile of a sweet boy. It was that smile I held onto as he cried and yelled in my arms for all that he had lost. Holding him as he sobbed was like battling killer waves on the Atlantic. My arms were not long enough, but my heart drew strength from that smile that I knew he had in him. He would grow calm in my arms and I would start humming. Then his face would appear in the dark, a warrior with wet cheeks; his eyes steady and strong as ever, his eyes would forget the tears in an instant. He would hook one finger on my collar bone and pull me close. That’s when he used to smile. I always thought he was amused by the songs I would hum, he always said he was amused by the look in my eyes whenever he came up from crying.

I wanted to kiss him every single time he smiled. I wanted to sleep next to him even when his torment was over. But I felt responsible, he had just been born again; I had to protect him even from myself.  We talked, we danced, we walked. He would give me piggy back rides; I would surprise him with kisses on his face. Chin, cheek, eyebrows; never the lips. I would tell him stories so he would stay by my side. He would get me drunk so I would fall asleep in his arms.

It was when he started smiling on his own, it was then I had to leave. He thought he loved me, but I was just a dream. Everything I wanted lay in the future, the present wasn’t a gift I valued. I wanted to run, I wanted to leave, I wanted to die on the road. Dreams fell off my lips; each word was a falling star I wished upon. He would tower over me, strong and steady and kind; I felt safe in his shadow. All I had to do was kiss his lips once and we would be inseparable, I knew.

It was a chilly October night, when he had offered me the world. “What is mine is yours.  All you have to do is write and dream and dance. I’ll feed you, I’ll carry you, I’ll love you.” I had my face buried in his neck; he had me folded up in his arms. I believed him, that was the problem. I trusted him more than I trusted myself, and that was scarier than being alone.

“I need you to go now, Frankie.”
“My offer still stands.”
“Thankfully the girl you made the offer to isn’t around anymore. You can’t give me the world, because I don’t want it.”

My eyes were fixed on his. So I couldn’t understand how he managed to move so fast. In a split second his finger had made it through the scarf around my neck and hooked itself on my collar bone. He pulled me in. He pulled me close. Those lips I had written ballads to were inches away from mine. I could feel his breath that used to carry out pain; it was full of strength now, it was full of conviction.

“You don’t have to be alone any more. I have enough skin for you to rewrite your dreams on."

True love was just a kiss away. True love was the one dream I never wished to dream again.

bedtime stories: bullshit

"Bullshit"

She kept repeating that word as I kept talking. "Bullshit." We were having a conversation about love, understanding, camaraderie, forgiveness, soul mates... A conversation I’d rather not be having. She knew it, too. That’s why she kept pushing. Every turn I took away from the subject she grabbed me by the hair and brought me back. She sensed my soul retreating back into its hole deep inside my mind. She heard my twisted logic working overtime. She saw me not-giving-a-fuck; so she took a hold of my shoulders and started to shake me silly. She knew this cycle way too well. She knew I would eventually emerge from the deep-freeze state I was putting myself into, but this time she wouldn't have it. She wanted me alive, laughing and loving and forgiving. She loved me when I seized life by the waist and showered her with kisses. She didn't like it when I danced for the darkness; eyes fierce, arms keeping everyone away, crouches and shoulders and a mask for a face. She loved me when I danced out of pure joy; hips, jumps, twirls, smiles and arms reaching out for the others, touching them, inviting them, silently but animatedly loving them.

"You can love without showing it."
"Bullshit."
"I don't believe in soul mates."
"Bullshit."
"Nobody really forgives; I certainly don't."
"Bullshit."
"Having an understanding of human nature, and figuring out the reasons behind an act doesn't necessarily mean you'll forgive it."
"Bullshit."

I was really full of it -it being shit- I was overflowing with it according to her. I didn't say it out loud, yet I thought I smelled just fine.

I wasn't even going to meet with her; I had cancelled our plans to go out drinking. She pulled out one of her favor cards. I owed her many favors, she owed me more. But it was carved in stone that you can't pull out a favor card in retaliation to the one the other pulls. I had to go. My refusal would collapse the tower of cards, and I liked them. I liked knowing I could call her if I have to and demand her to see me at any time. That’s how the system worked. If I refused now, she could refuse later. The cards were a safety net I wouldn't dare burn.

There we were, stuck in a conversation without any loop holes. She was determined to break me; I was determined to exhaust her. She had been manipulated and tricked out of conversations by me so many times that she wouldn't budge. Too frequently I had pretended to agree with her so now she wouldn't be fooled. "You patronizing ass" she said, "how dumb do you take me for?" "Dumb enough to love me," is what I almost said, and then I bit my tongue. She would get started on low self-esteem... That line of thought wouldn't save me from the conversation I wanted so much to flee from; it would just give her a new set of ammo. That’s when she smiled and leaned her shoulder on mine. We have been sitting side by side all this time, having this conversation without eye contact, heads tilted towards one another, darting glances around the bar. Her shoulder touched mine and she whispered. "Loving you is the smartest thing I’ve done my entire life, you idiot. You are the bestest friend anyone could have. You are the cutest little pet anyone could keep. I’ve left you out on the streets way too long, it seems. But we'll get you cleaned up and cuddly in no time." Yes, this is how she addressed my low self-esteem, what she thought was low self-esteem, by comparing me to a lost kitten... All I could manage to say was "it should be illegal to know someone this well." She knew what I didn't say, I knew what she meant. I wondered if she knew I was thinking about cutting her head open just then. I wanted to touch the brain which deciphered my muscle movements; I wondered if I cut it open and squished my fingers around, would I know for sure if this sense of connection was an illusion or not.

She kept saying things like:
"You are not an android."
"Stop denying your heart."
"This is not healthy."
"You have so much love to give."
"How can you even think this?"
"Get a hold of yourself."
"You are trying to avoid getting hurt."
"Be true to your soul."

She wouldn't give up, and anything I said was "bullshit." She wanted to break me alright. Yet it was impossible while she was in denial of my darkness. I was everything she thought I was, but it was as if she could only see certain shades. The deep-freeze state she feared so intensely was a glitch that needed to be taken care of; my eagerness to be frozen was a disease she yearned to cure. I looked at her hands as she tried to explain, one hand was trying to claw a hole through her jeans, the other was holding onto her first glass of beer. I had just ordered my fourth.

"Bullshit." I finally said it. I had always been extra kind with her. I knew she loved me more than she would ever admit. Telling her I didn't believe in soul mates may be a little mean; maybe I rip her heart open every time I tell her I want to be left alone. Holding her when she cried might have been such a little consolation compared to what her body actually desired. Yet I had never made any comments about her feelings for me. Not once did I call her out on her distorted definition of best friends. She always said she admired my honesty. Did she know being totally honest means to be unmerciful mostly? A cuddly, bubbly little creature can't be honest unless it doesn’t mind using its claws.

"Bullshit." I finally said. "When I tell you I don't believe in soul mates, I am talking about the world wide understanding of the term. Of course my soul connects with people, and if that connection is right it endures all things. But the world tells you there is only one of those, and you should try to find that person. You should make sure you found the right one; you should make sure to stay together forever and ever. The world sends you on this wild goose chase after an ideal that is tainted by lust and whim and weak minds. The world pities you if you don't find your soul mate, and belittles you if you call the wrong person that. And if by sheer luck you find that connection, the world presents you with a set of rules that crushes and weakens the souls that were meant to mate. They feed you this illusion that everything will be peachy with your soul mate by your side. Not one soul is completely innocent, not one soul is entirely good. Shouldn’t I find someone who can mate with the evil in me, too? When we mate wouldn’t we be giving birth to some doom and gloom?”

"Bullshit" I finally said. "You keep telling me to be true to my soul, my heart. What about yours? I know you hate bars, I know you hate drinking. But you made yourself believe that I am only truly happy when I drink, so you won't even accept an invitation to go to the movies. You do what you hate to make me happy. There’s selflessness in that maybe, maybe if you do it occasionally it is a loving act; but if this has become the norm, if this is the only way we interact, it can only mean you think I wouldn't love you unless you constantly make me happy. Talk about low self-esteem."

"Bullshit" I finally said. "You think you are in love with me, you think we are soul mates. Yet you rationalize every unkind thing I say, and refuse the malice in me. How can we mate while you won't open your eyes and see me totally?"

Her fingers relaxed, and she put the beer glass on the table. She pulled my face close to hers and looked deep into my eyes.

"You are not frozen anymore. Now we shall dance."
“Who knows, maybe our connection is not an illusion after all.”
“Bullshit.”

bedtime stories: a moaning groaning flab

I was almost 16 when I met her. I loved her curly hair right away. I thought it was ironic; she was a good girl, her hair was wild. Who would have thought her hair was only the tip of the iceberg? Her madness was big enough to cover the Atlantic. She liked to straighten her hair with flat irons; we would both get burned in front of the mirror in her tiny bathroom. I had gotten my hair cut real short a month after we met, so the flat irons were used only on her. She couldn't get the back done right, so I would squeeze in behind her to do it. She would never keep still, so we would both get burned. Sometimes she would burn me for the hell of it. She thought it was funny to hurt me. This was in the beginning; by the time my remaining days with her could be reported in two digit numbers I wouldn't even step in a crowded room she was in. It wasn't terror I felt when she looked into my eyes; I was just trying to spare a few breaths to get me home. She was cancer, and she had already metastasized through me; I wished to keep her away from my bones. I was 16.5, I wanted to get me home to hug mommy and daddy. I didn't succeed; I was a moaning groaning flab when she was done with me; and my family didn’t have enough arms to cover me totally.

She was mad; angry and crazy. She was cute; a pretty bag filled with dinosaur excrement fueled over centuries of extinction. Burn and freeze, burn and freeze, I did for months. Towards the end, my insides had fused. I was a moaning groaning flab rolling in the shadows of reality. She took one look at the pink of my skin and the bubbles of my laugh; she took one look and claimed them her bounty. She didn't bother to be sneaky with me; she made sure I heard the click of the safety before she assassinated my sweet elves of youth and joy. She didn't leave one standing. She got them all.

No, she didn't bother to be sneaky but she took her time. She would lure the soul-elves out of their hiding places with pecan pies and romantic comedies. She would pet their hair, and take them out for a drive. They would all sing along to country songs as we passed through towns with no traffic lights. The elves would get tired and she would lovingly tuck them in. Alarms would be going off, sirens would be blaring, and my eyes would rarely close when she was in the house. The elves wouldn't be able to sleep with all that noise and light. I would be wondering if she might be too tired to kill this time. The alarms would be going off and I would be waiting. It would be only a matter of moments now. The smell of excrement would fill my nose, and then the sound of her voice, “wakey wakey!” Her face would hover over mine for a second before she took another shot at me. One more elf would be down, and I would start cleaning up. I would be too tired to mourn yet another death of mine. I would be too relieved to grieve, for she wouldn't be crazed with hate for at least a couple of hours. Guilt liked to take hold of her after each attack. I prayed for her psychotic episodes as much as I dreaded them. She would cry herself to sleep afterwards, and I would rest for a bit knowing I had some time before she might come around again. The alarms would silence, and my muscles would relax a little. I would leave one tiny guard by my ears, and the rest of me would dive in a fresh grave to sleep. Yet before I closed my eyes, I would wish I just had it in me to rip myself apart, and join her on the other side. If only I could show her she wasn't alone, if only I could become her partner in crime, we would become the sisters-for-life she wished upon. She wouldn’t hold these hunting parties then; sisters don’t hunt each other down; if they attack, they attack on ancient battlegrounds.

I was a moaning groaning flab by the time she was done with me. Her poor mother was crying as we carried my bags to the car. I was feeling guilty for I couldn’t cry. This woman was the only reason I could still pass as a human being; this woman had guarded me as best as one could while one was dying a thousand deaths oneself. Guilt and gratitude tickled me. Manic laughter was trying to rush through my vocal folds. I was feeling something for the first time in a while now. Who would have thought there was still a sentient being hidden within all that flab? Her poor mother held the flesh which once was my face and said, “At least say bye to her.” I whispered, “You should say bye to her, too.” Her poor mother never would. 

She was resting in the living room when it was time for me to leave. She was recovering from minor surgery, so she couldn't make any sudden movements. She was drugged up, I was assured, there were no risks of her verbal lashings either. I still wouldn't enter the room. I stood a couple of steps behind her poor mother, and coughed out a forceful "Bye." My own voice startled me. I didn't know the number of days I had whispered through. The manic laughter was threatening to burst out again. I still had a voice. I still had a voice. She hadn't been able to beat it all out of me. I moved a little to the right so she could see my eyes. “How are you?” I asked, "Are you in pain?" I took a step forward as she uttered, “Yes.” I said “I hope you feel better.”  and she flinched, sensing I was done with her, and I wouldn't remain a moaning groaning flab for long. She was a true Christian, so when Lady Gaia breezed through the house and a magnificent crow landed on the kitchen counter foreboding my revival, she was petrified. Tears started rolling down her cheeks. Gaia's little messenger made a soft, gurgling sound after inspecting the flesh which once was my face; I think I was smiling, he flew away seeming pleased. I placed my hand on the tip of the iceberg one last time; I even kissed it to make sure the chill sank deep. She said “I love you so much.” I said “I am lucky you don’t love me more.” 

bedtime stories: it is your fault that i left

(male narration)

i am coming
i got coffee and jack and pudding
i don't know which cigarettes
you smoke these days
i got five different packs

you didn't call me on my birthday
all day i waited for your song
are you not happy anymore that i was born
it is your fault that i left
i needed you to tie us together
tight and strong
seal us up down in your cellar
i wanted to rot with you
squirm in the dark

it is your fault that i left
i asked you to change me
change together we shall
if it's meant to be
was all you gave me

it wasn't hard to leave
i won't lie
the door was open
and i loved it
when she clawed her fingers
firm into my heart
she needed me
i yearned to be needed
you don't need anything though
you merely want
if things fall apart
you shrug your shoulders
and say life is shit
so be it

i am coming
tell me where you are
i have the chains ready in the trunk 
i don't care if you want to fly
i'll make them into wings for you if i must
we'll be heavy but you can get us off the ground

it is your fault that i left
i needed you to beg me
i wanted to tell the boys
she just won't let me
but you left the door open
and waved me bye with a smile

you took me literally
or saw right through me
who cares but when i said
i don't have time
i wanted you to take it
you just stopped calling
you took me literally
or saw right through me
same difference
you made yourself scarce

did you want
to be needed
i know you were hurt
why wouldn't you
let me see it
all you had to do
was close the door
say there is no way out
i wanted to rot with you
squirm in the dark
you left it wide open
you said go ahead
i don't mind

you knew
how to love
silently
on your own
why didn't you
just
scream me
back home

it is your fault that i left
tell me where you are
i went miles without you
loved and ached and cried
it is you that i want
i shall be born with you
if you won't have us rot

bedtime stories: a thousand knives

I sat there silently as he yelled. I was looking up at the gray sky. It wasn’t an exceptional sky. The windows were closed; I had gone from room to room, closing each one, as he trailed behind with his yelling. The sun was setting when he started, it was morning now, and he just wouldn’t stop. I wondered if I should tell him I haven’t been listening since around 3 am. I decided not to. My mouth might have started forming other sentences, too. There was nothing left to argue. There was nothing left to explain. There was nothing left to save. I didn’t even look at him that much through the night; his voice was enough to blind me. His beauty was not necessary. I wanted him to stop talking; I wanted him to stop existing. I wanted him so fiercely; I wanted him to blow up so I could clean his flesh off the walls. He had already exploded though, hadn’t he? There I sat an early Christmas tree decorated in his body parts. His tongue stuck in my cunt, his fingers up my nose, his cock and balls dangling down my neck. Ribs, teeth, kidneys all mine. He yelled; I licked his blood off my palms. I tuned in to his early morning show for a second “What else do you want from me; I gave you all that I am!!!” I didn’t want anything from him, not anymore. I had wanted him to put his palm on the glass between us. He thought it was too much, too soon. It was a mirror; his resistance shook both our worlds. “You said you loved me!!!” What was love? That sense of drowning I woke up to every morning? All those questions I was afraid to ask? Was it his eyelashes? Could I love without being loved? “I told you, you would grow tired of me and leave!!! You promised you wouldn’t!!! I fucking believed you!!!” We were a never-ending test. It was the fear of failing i got tired of. Why hadn’t he seen it in my eyes?  Maybe I should have been flattered from the number of stabs he aimed at my heart, he must have thought I was strong. A tank, in awe of a thousand knives. No, he couldn’t possibly kill me, but I didn’t want to swallow knives anymore, it was messy throwing them back up. I wanted to be swallowing his cum. His cum wouldn’t upset my stomach like steel. “You are just like her!!!” Her... She had taken a leave of absence, I was just subbing indefinitely until her bided return... Was that the glint of a cleaver? Silly boy, he could throw zilch while I sat there juggling his extremities. “Are you even listening to me?!!! Say something, damn it!!!" My words were all there on the walls, on that desk we shared, on the floor we fucked. On his cornea my words were etched. Love was his cornea, his cornea loved me. I realized we both haven’t eaten in hours; he had stayed up all night yelling; I had stayed up all night so he could yell. He had to be hungry. Could he still be hungry all blown to smithereens? He stopped yelling, I looked at him. Someone deep inside me wanted to kiss him. With his tongue stuck in my cunt it would have been pointless. I placed my hand on my sternum. If I could claw through and rip it out, then he would see our blood rush and merge. People are afraid to merge; blood never fears the truth. His whisper tickled my ear “Don’t go.” My words rearranged themselves on his right foot that sat bloody in my lap “i am still here.”

bedtime stories: acting

i remember, it was winter. i would go outside every once in a while to cool the sweats of dancing. lola would tell me to leave the jacket; she was tired of me reaching over her for the backpack, i remember. sickness didn't worry her, she was never the care giver, she only liked to be cared for.

i was standing outside, slightly trembling as i smoked through my pack. we could still smoke inside in those days. my t-shirt had several holes; not every one can dance and smoke at the same time. i cursed at lola under my breath, i needed my jacket. but you can't argue with her once she is drunk. i have a feeling she gets drunk to keep us all under her spell. he grabbed me from behind and planted a kiss on my cheek. i was big; he was bigger. i couldn't get away. i didn't really want to, mind you. i was cold, he was warm; and it took me only a glance at my waist to recognize him.

he turned me around, and lifted my chin. i could taste his kiss even before i saw his baby-blues. tall, blond and blue eyes; he was everything you were not. i never gave him my phone number. he had to find me in the bars. there are so many bars in this city, sometimes it took him months.  he turned me around and lifted my chin. "bingo" he said, before he went in for my lips. “you smoke too much,” he said. “are you drunk?”, he asked. “let me take you home, you are shivering, it's almost dawn, you need to sleep, i will lay you down, and watch you dream...”

i wasn't done dancing, i wasn't done smoking, i wasn't done drinking. i wouldn't tell him i needed to be held that night, even his gaze would be enough. but i wouldn't tell him all that, all i could manage was "let me get you drunk." i grabbed his hand, i ignored his warmth, i didn't even stop for the kiss when he pulled me back into his arms. he was everything you were not, but he reminded me of you. maybe it was because he was living the life you so fiercely dreamt about.

i danced, sweat dropping from my face. i didn't even care he got himself wet every time he held me close. i was old, he was older. he laughed when i told him that. he thought him young, he saw me a child. but on every dawn we shared, right before he fell asleep on my chest, as he muttered the prayer "sleep with me," his eyes would tell mine "you are old, i am older." i danced, his gaze kept me warm and awake; no sweat shivers that night, no drunken sleep hiding behind the bottles. he was everything you were not, but he reminded me of you. i couldn't stay near him, but i couldn't let him leave. i could only let him hold me for so long, then i had to flee. but i didn't want him to be looking at anyone but me.

when he held me close, my face pressed against his chest, i could smell the theater on him. the scent pierced through the memories. you up on a stage, rehearsing, talking, practicing, exercising; me in the corner taking pictures, reading, laughing, listening, watching. you would jump down, run across, and plant me a forceful kiss. you were acting, you were always acting. you lived life as if it was a stage, you lived us as if we were a greek tragedy. acting was merely one of the ways you could be recognized, it wasn't your only dream. you dreamt about everything that could make a historical figure out of you. i couldn't convince you love was the only historical figure everyone recognized. when he held me close, i could smell the stage on him. he was an actor, something you never really became. you gave up on the theater too, like you gave up on us. he was an actor, and he was slightly famous. when he held me close, at those bars theater people go to, i could hear them whisper, what he did mattered, who he held was intriguing. my face pressed against his chest, his hands cupping my cheeks, his arms holding me from behind, it was the smell, it was the smell, that shook my knees. "stop resisting us" he would say, i wouldn't say "stop acting."

i went to one of his plays this year, he was brilliant. he was acting, and he was not. how blinded was i from memories, that i couldn’t see how genuine he was... when i stopped going to the bars; they say he didn’t stop looking for me. he would run into my friends, and look around for my face. i never gave him my phone number, so he wouldn’t ask it from anyone. i told you, i was old, he was older. it took me years to walk into a theater again. it took me years to love the stage again. i am still wary of actors, but i can at least recognize he was nothing like you. maybe it was because he was on stage every day, that he didn’t feel the need to act off it. maybe it was because he was older, or maybe he was just stable. he was everything you were not. even your acting was fake. you wanted so much; nothing was yours, nothing was enough.

bedtime stories: that summer night

She called to ask him of her fresh-out-of-the-oven mistakes. He had always been keen to tell her of her flaws. It was facing him she built her armor. It was facing him she accepted her bowel movements. She called to ask him. She called to bargain with him:

“I’m a mess.

You need to fix this.”

She was about to say:

“You are still holding on to my pieces.
Let them go. Be kind, rewind.
Put me back, –not together-
put me back, where you found me,
that damn summer night.”

He started speaking before she could make a sound. But first, she heard him sigh:

“I’ve dreamt you with someone else last night. I’ve dreamt you with someone else so many nights; I should be used to it. We’re through and you are free. So tell me, why do I feel like the day you fled torn and bloody, broken and erased?  I’ve dreamt you with someone else, yet my hands ache like the day I ripped off your wings and danced. Is it because you hate me still? Is it because it burns when a man touches the skin I’ve pricked and chafed? It feels like a haunting, and you are not even dead yet. “

“You know I don’t hate you.
I already wrote the pain out.
I pity us our mistakes no more.
Our fingers molded beasts and daemons
out of beauty and angels, so be it.
Look, we survived, we survived each other.
Blood still pumps through our veins.”

“I’ve feared this day for years. You’ve started dreaming a future again, haven’t you? And you want the fragments I am holding on to? You want to be whole again, I get it. But, please, don’t ask me to forget you.”

“I need the beast back.
I need to be pissed off.
Cut the sentimental crap,
and fight me.”

“Don’t fool yourself; read between the lines, I am still the beast. But, you are fine now, I can feel it. I’ll forever regret fathering the little daemons out of you. But, fear no more, I now hear the voice of the angel I found that holy summer night.”

“Life is not a fairy tale,
and angels do not exist.
We were two fucked up kids,
who fucked each other up.
Yes, we loved, but we hated more.
Tell me of my daemons;
remind me why I am to die alone.”

“I know you don’t believe, but I have faith, God exists. You’ll go back to heaven, and in hell I shall pay for my sins. So, this is it, you’ve started dreaming again; someone got through. You can have the crumbs I’ve been holding on to, but I can’t and I won’t forget you. I promise I won’t let my left side ache for your weight as I sleep; I promise, I won’t call out your name in dreams; that’s the least I can do. I’m sorry I cauterized your heart shut, but now that you pried it open, I can peacefully put you back where I found you that damn summer night.”

bedtime stories: her tounge

He knew how to intrigue women, how to push their buttons and strike a conversation. He had been a player as long as he could remember. His dark hair was smooth as silk, and shone around his strong face. His face wasn’t a player’s face; he was blessed with trustworthy and kind features. He knew he couldn’t have lasted in the game if “asshole” was written on his forehead, and cheeks, and lips. Women loved his lips; they wanted to kiss him almost immediately, not that they would admit to it. Women loved playing hard to get, and he loved getting them.

So when he sat down across the pretty girl he had chosen for a play date, he was ready for all the possible conversations. He had chosen the opening line, and his comebacks to her likely replies. This one looked like a romantic; glasses and short bangs, no make-up, a black loose summer dress, and a notebook on the table. Complimenting her on her looks wouldn’t work, she would probably laugh and dismiss him immediately. Real romantics have player radars you see; they like things that last for a while, and they know a player is not worth the excitement of new beginnings. They know you can’t write a full story with a player. This one looked pensive, not sad, not mad; but as if she was solving a puzzle as she stared at her notebook. She was probably a romantic years haven’t turned bitter yet.

He sat down across from her and said “Have you ever been in love?” This wasn’t the opening line he had chosen. It was nowhere near it. He was going to tell her he needed help pretending he wasn’t alone at a bar on a Friday afternoon for his ex had just walked in. "I need ten minutes of your time, if you please," he was going to say; "and I would appreciate it if you could be kind enough to pretend you were enjoying yourself." Ten minutes was all he needed; in ten minutes he would get her hooked... and then drunk, and then it would be flying sheets and screaming beasts till dawn. He had a feeling about this one, this one liked it rough; she had the jaws of a fierce feline. Yet as he sat down, under her unstartled gaze, as his glass met the table a bit too hard, as he bumped his knee on the chair, he found himself saying “Have you ever been in love?”

She tilted her head a little, a faint smile passed through her eyelashes for a second. She yawned covering her mouth with her notebook, sat back in her chair, put her bare feet across the one he had bumped into seconds ago, took her glasses off, and closed her eyes.

“I need an exact definition of ‘being in love’, so I can reply in your tongue. Nobody speaks the same language these days.”

This was going all wrong. He felt unsure; he looked around the bar, wondering if he had picked the wrong girl. Even his eyes had lost focus now. He was losing his calm.

“Why did you close your eyes? What’s wrong with you?”
“Nothing is wrong. You, good sir, have a beautiful mask of a face. If I look at it long enough I might add undeserved adjectives to your existence. There is nothing more dangerous than hasty dedication of names."
“I need to see your eyes to speak with you.”
“You can’t be trusted to look into them, either. They have a mind of their own; and without knowing my language, theirs might confuse you.“
“Are you crazy or something?”
“And now I need a definition of the word crazy to reply truthfully.”
“Good luck with that.”

As he got up, he almost knocked over his beer glass. She caught it. All of a sudden, her feet were down, her eyes were open, and she was handing his glass to him. There was something splendid about the shape of her lips, and the light of her eyelashes. It took him a second to realize she was smiling. Her face remained glorious as she wiped the beer drops off her glasses and put them back on. He was still standing there. She was smiling into him.

“Run along now; go play with the others. I don’t mind.”

He had no idea if he had won or lost with her. He knew it was a big mistake to address a woman as crazy even in the form of a question, but there she had replied with that silly talk about definitions. So how come he was the one feeling silly and lost?

He walked away, fearing she had erased him. He wouldn’t be surprised if his straight hair had grown curls all of a sudden. He had a feeling it was her tongue that he had to speak now. It was her tongue his mouth needed. He knew he would go back to that table over and over again until he knew what she was. Until she told her what he was with eyes wide open.

bedtime stories: clashing memories

He remembers her silent clapping each time they met and the final goodbye on the intercom as he left the building.  He remembers the bubbles and booze and the sound of her voice when she was amused.

She remembers the expensive perfumes in his hair -one on each strand, fighting for absolute possession... she remembers breaking up with him, refusing to be the girlfriend he fooled, and breaking pieces of her heart as she remained one of his buffoons.

She used to love him. Or so she thought. She was not young, yet she still got confused when her existence wanted to fill another soul. Keeping someone company was safe grounds, yet passion lost her senses, her definitions, her boundaries. Passion shook her up until she imploded into herself, sticky and wet and useless.

She used to love him. Or so she thought. Never asked him where he was going, never asked him where he has been.  She was alive when he wasn’t there, and she wanted to die with each smile that escaped for him.  She would have liked reading him in a novel or hearing a song about him but at arm’s length he was the thing she despised.  He was Narcissus forever deaf, and the echoes of her heart only pierced her own flesh.

He would call and she would shrink. He would come and she would diffuse. He would laugh and she would hate.  “We are a match made in heaven” he would say, “Do sharks come from heaven?” she would growl. He thought it was sexy, her growl. He thought he loved her. He thought she didn’t have a jealous bone in her body. He thought many things that weren’t true. He was a wishing well in which cold, dark souls grew.

He remembers the sweet wishes right before sleep, the smell of shampoo on her hair. She remembers counting the kisses he stole, counting the bitter bugs on her tongue that crawled. She remembers sneaking away to the couch after he fell asleep, for sleeping next to him was lonelier than a glacier, and the couch had the arms of a mother.  He remembers waking up next to her, and reaching for her morning smile.  

She used to love him. Or so she thought. She was always too quick with her expressions; she couldn’t contain the words when she loved. She was slow to love actually, but passion made her spin uncontrollably. She had read it somewhere, love was the collision of two worlds; and she had ached to collide with him. Alas!  He was nothing more than a wall and she couldn’t stop. He was her punishment; he was the due she had to pay to the Troll. She collided into him, again and again, full force, full body, full soul.

He remembers her humming in the kitchen fetching his drink. She remembers waiting for her love to die, blink by blink. 

bedtime stories: the sun was gone

 i still have your wine glass in my pocket, is mine in your bag; do you still get drunk with wine and bliss every full moon; i heard you moved, is your new room green, too; are you happy without the memories and mirrors; are you peaceful in your new life; do you still crawl under the blankets and read; do you doze off with a smile on your face; do you have a boyfriend, does he love you, does he hold you? i am sorry i never really held you...

dumbfounded she looks at his face. she knows this face. she had memorized it once upon a time, hadn't she? she knows the sea on this face, she knows the sun in that hair. they are gone now. where have they gone? without them he looks just empty.

are you mad at me; can you forgive; i know i hurt you a lot, but i never lied about who i am; can i sit down; can we talk; would you smile for me once; even if it's for the last time; do you hum your nonesongs and dance as you please; what do you write about now; do you still hide them from other eyes; do you walk around with your camera; do you walk around with that endless heart of yours; do you have a lover; does your heart hold him and protect him; does he know? i am sorry i never really knew you...

the girl looks around. the girl holds her right hand with the left. the girl looks around. the sentences aimed at her bounce off her soul. the girl looks around. does anyone else see what is happening? is this really happening? she looks at his face. his lips move, and silly little words come out galloping. she can feel her lips forming a joker smile, she can't take the chance. she drinks the last shot on the table. tequila numbs her face. there she sits motionless, mimickless, mute.

am i bothering you, shall i go; won't you say anything; i deserve this silence but i want your words back, i want your laughs back, i want your eyes back; maybe you can't love me again, and i have a girlfriend now, but i want your mind back; i love you, i miss you, let me hold your hand; don't walk away from me; don't you dare turn your back; so you love someone else now, is that it; does he come running to you; i always made you wait; is he a better friend, is he your soul mate; do you tell him about your nightmares; do you let him calm you down; please, don't go, i beg of you; i am sorry i never really heard you... 

the girl keeps walking, her lips blowing out steam:
"i am sorry i never really held you...
i am sorry i never really knew you...
i am sorry i never really heard you..."

bedtime stories - 1

little boy, little boy, what were you thinking? didn't you see the warning signs?
the road was blocked, and the vicinity was evacuated with good reason.
let's say curiosity got the best of you and you made it to the gates; the big whiny padlock obviously didn't stop you, and you thought the dancing shrubs were a hoot, but what about the headless chickens running around and the bleeding grass?...
did you think you were in an amusement park, and this was a fancy horror ride?

you did get to waltz through, though. didn't even realize the booby traps you set off...
just as you exited through the back door, the house exploded, collapsed, and burned...
it is an ancient house, it took awhile for it to respond...

you went off to save your little princess yes.
but little boy, be assured, the smell of destruction hides well.
you will smell the house on your dirty little fingers through time.
through neverending silly little quests, the smell will remain by thy side.

the house will rebuild itself, the headless chickens will be reborn, and the new shrubs will dance better.
but the next time you come around, the house will smell its own destruction on you from lives away.
the next time you come around, the gates themselves will eat you alive.
the house will make a lantern out of your skull.

little boy, little boy, what were you thinking?
this is a curse so strong, even your fairy godmother can't lift it.