Nightlight
Saint Louise Was Listening On
11:38 p.m. || 2004-06-07
Aesop Rock, and coffee, moved up from half and half to light cream, had a beautiful almost dream of a poem last night that left me with my waking, bleeding lightly and my cheeks are flushed, thinking about the almost infection in the back of my mouth, upper right side, and the things I might do to hide from the pain that is everywhere in everything.
All I ever wanted was a little piece to go right, something that sounded almost ok, and the halt to the fact that my stomach turns whenever you mention a cute girl, or the cute ass on an ugly girl, or the fact that I can't get from you what I most want, and what I want most is not a wedding ring.
You just called life a bitch 'cause she wouldn't let you get that pussy, isn't that what the song said? I thought maybe there was something to this, and I have given it up too many times to count.
Be like me, be just like me, do all the things I do, think all the things I think, go out on Fridays and drink like I drink, call your mother a whore to her face, and embrace the other one, and understand in your heart it's because you fear becoming the first one in so many ways, and you can't get to be like the other one no matter what you do, you didn't do enough cocaine, you didn't fuck at a young enough age, you didn't have the hands of fate slap you around quite the same, and I guess in the end it didn't matter anyways.... you and she were fundamnetally the same.
I don't think really that any of it will make sense in a couple years from now, and I do remember being fifteen and thinking this age was impossibly old, thinking the daylight was impossibly long in the height of the summer, I can remember the way big wet snowflakes used to hang in my eyelashes, and the way I would shake the cold away, naked under the covers with a boy I used to know, waiting making love with our breath held, hoping his parents were preoccupied with the same goings on.
All these things make me think about walking to a 7-11 in the middle of the night, and wondering what was so bad about life then? What made me want the same demise that I do now? And thinking about this just makes me think nothing in life will never ever be good enough, and no one will ever understand that I am only smiling for all of you, and it was never really meant to come off like that, I just spare you all what you would feel if you could see my truth. I think people find my gaze disturbing as it is, and I can't help this either.
If you could live the way I live, see the things I see, think my thoughts, you would all see, I'm not a good person, living like other people think "there's a martyr, there's a saint, I swear, she's so beautiful, so sad, so emotional, so talented..." So hollow. There is nothing but the mosaic of people fading from my mind like an amnesiac, the contact that thins until it is gone, years later I can dimly remember people like Matt and Julie, Bill, Tiffany, and thinking what ever became of them, what ever became of Pat and Hoss, and Missy, pregnant, and Cyrah after that night in her apartment, sleeping spooned on a mattress, playing Risk, whatever happened to Brian Kokosa, who ever knew but me for the longest time the secrets between us, who ever knew before the rape was a plea that maybe we should have sex, turned down at twelve, because we were moving too fast, then not having the decision when the time came. Who would know?
Nightlight Got Me When the Daylight Turned to Evening.