Break

I can't do another break-up
feels sad,
as if we break up and – tiring
at least over the years
once we might have smiled for
a month as it is summer.

I want – what do you want—
to let go but I need to hear –
just can't talk.

I don't want to hear the chimes
to cry anymore over the old part of town
It's so tedious.
It's what we're used to.

Etchings

I want to see the pain

as it flows,

coloring the white with thick red.

Sticky tears joining hands to create a flood.

I want to trace my finger in this river of red,

smear it over my skin, make trails and marks.

Paint.

I want to see my pain. 

I wear the marks of my pain

in places you will never see.

On the soles of my feet,

at the back of me knees.

Engravings of mutilation.

Etchings of despair.

I want to control my pain.

I want to own my pain. 

Harming yourself is a form of self-expression said the helpful doctor.

I trace elaborate patterns in my skin, 
etchings of pain.

Like pistes under new fallen snow,

veins hide under my skin.

Light catches the blade

and for a moment I’m stuck in the glare.

It’s pretty.

Then it touches my skin

I feel

I see my pain. 


Recycled - first draft circa 2006

Your Bed

This bed.

Where you lay sleepless in the dark, tracing imaginary outlines of a body you once knew so well, listening to occasional sounds of footsteps and fragments of conversations drifting through the open window, hoping to hear her voice.

Inside is your silence.

This bed.

Too big for one. In a house, with dust-covered memories. Before the dust, before the silence, this bed was made for two. Now you sit on this bed, trawling Facebook for pictures; wondering if the guy next to her is someone she's fucking.

Inside are your shadows.

This bed.

Its posters covered in cobwebs of what once was your truth; a game where the pieces disintegrated each time one of you made a move. This bed is haunted by fragments of conversations, the heat of her body, as you lay sleepless inside your darkness.

Ugh! Been working on this for weeks now and can still not get it right - all I seem to be doing is shift sentences around. I'm just not a poet (though some nice lines in there, which is why I couldn't let it go - will plagiarize self and use in novel!) so I give up - fuck your bed! 

Retraction of previous post

http://annasramblingstake2.blogspot.com/2011/08/dear-alkaline-trio.htm

I take it back, apart from two absolutely fucking awful tracks Damnesia is an incredible album. Still not forgiving you guys for Calling all Skeletons and This addiction though.

"Chapter 1"

Holy fuck! So I just wrote "Chapter 1" under the title of my novel. I'm sending it out to my writing group so I thought I'd clarify that it's the first chapter. (Normally I never number my chapters (probably because I never get far enough along before OH SHINY!) or name them.) I already have most of the chapter so it's not even on a blank page but the psychological reaction was stunning.  Because "Chapter 1" is like the most fucking awful thing EVAH to write! It immediately sends you into a cold sweat and it's like you're all of a sudden incapable of stringing letters together to make up words, never mind sentences. What lies before you is a never ending amount of pages to fill and it all starts with "Chapter 1"... Just thinking that combination makes me want to defenestrate myself. Which would be kinda pointless since I don't live that far off the ground but all the same. PANIC!

On Time Wasting

"You're nothing if not a catch" I was told the other day. In all fairness, it was in agreement to my exclamation that I am a catch, but all the same. And seriously, I am. There are endless words describing just how awesome I am. How about funny. Witty. Intelligent. Intellectual. Cute, sparkly, quirky, insane, charming, hot. And of course awesome. (And not modest.)

But despite all these great qualities I'm still not being caught. In all honesty though, I don't think it's necessarily that no one's trying to catch me, but rather that I don't want to be caught, or I don't want to be caught by the people trying to catch me. And I suppose that's fair enough.

However, there seems to be an epidemic rippling through society; it's like women nowadays have become as emotionally retarded as men. It's all about protecting yourself from hurt and disappointment. And we don't want to waste time on someone who's not worth it. Of course, that's understandable. But at the same time, we're allowing what little time we have to get wasted on waiting for something.. I don't know... Better?

I have so many single girlfriends - don't think I've ever had so many single girlfriends at the same time! And they're all great and would make some man a good wife (calm down, it's a joke!). But the excuses - "I have lost my confidence"; "I don't think we have anything in common"; "he had something stuck in his teeth"; or even worse, the ones that are in some sort of holding pattern with some dude: "I'll wait and see what happens, maybe he'll be more available after they've signed the contract". When did we all stop living? Is this what getting older does to you? You have to consider things x100 and lose all hope before you dare to enter? Making excuses for why we don't do things.

We're wasting so much time, waiting or being scared and not wanting to get hurt again. NEWS FLASH! Life is suffering! What's the point in being semi-dead for the next 40-50 years just to make sure that your precious feelings don't get a little frayed? At least then you know you've lived. Of course as we get older, we know what we don't want, but probably still unsure exactly what it is we want.

Because the truth is it doesn't exist. It was made up by ad guys to sell stuff, which we happily buy in to. We want to be told what love is supposed to look like, so we recognize it when we see it. But we'll never find that one perfect person because that person will never exist. So isn't it better to stop thinking so much and grab happiness where we can find it? Stop wasting all this time in an effort to protect our little feelings? Isn't life supposed to be a bit of fun?!





Author's note: This is a general pondering; I'm not talking about myself. I know exactly what I want and where to grab my happiness. 

Inamorato

It’s always like the first time. The way your touch me intoxicates me. Every strand, the myriad of molecules, every neuron in me is tingling in anticipation as I look up at you, explore your skin, your hardness, your softness, with my body. I taste you. I fill my lungs with you. I can never get enough of feeling you inside me, under me, on top of me, moving slow, moving fast. And when I’m exhausted, you lull me to sleep. Our moments together are so tender, yet so rough.

You never cease to surprise me. There is always a bit of you that’s unknown to me. As you lead me to new streets, new bars, new adventures, and tell me tales of times past, of ghosts, of greatness, I forever fall more in love with you. Time stops; it doesn’t exist. But somehow, it always ends.

Thinking about you, even when I’m with you, makes me breathless, my chest tightens and it hurts. Because, I know, you will never truly be mine. To you this means nothing. As soon as I leave, you will forget about me. You will tell other women your stories, show them your heart, take them to your bed and make love to them. And then watch over them as they sleep.

But I can’t stay away from you. I have tried. You’re in my blood; you pulsate through me. I hear you as I put my head on my pillow to rest. I feel you as I'm running along the Thames in the rain. Do you ever think about me when I’m not with you? Do you ever miss me, miss having me next to you? I sometimes fool myself into thinking that if you knew how I feel you’d confess your true heart. And then we could be together.

Our relationship is breaking me. But I am forever yours, New York. And as we kiss goodbye, for this time? forever? I close my eyes. I don’t want you to see me cry, so I walk away without looking back. I don’t want to know if you are still standing there, watching me walk away, if maybe our parting is upsetting you too. I don’t look back because I don’t want to find out that you’re not standing there watching me walk away.

Still there's a light I hold before me
You're the measure of my dreams

184 days without shoes

It's official. Even I have now come to the conclusion that I have a ridiculous amount of shoes. A fucking tower I stumble over as I try to get in or out my front door - I would guess about 15 pairs, the shoes I'm currently high on are stranded pretty much exactly where I left them when I took them off. On the shoe rack, shoes are stacked on each other, three pairs high in some place, and to be honest, I don't even remember what shoes I have there (I do know there are pairs I haven't even worn yet, but don't ask me what they look like). But that doesn't really matter since I can't get to the shoe rack anyway, because to get to it I'd have to first climb over the shoe tower and then climb over the 11 boxes containing, yes you've got it, shoes.

I recently discover that the following ins't actually true:

I discover this after having bought six pairs in, um, 4-5 weeks. Turns out everything was exactly as it was before I got the shoes and it made no impact on anything apart from my credit card. (Which incidentally got even more abused as I also had to buy new outfits to go with the damn shoes.) And that actually made things worse. Here I am, a bunch of shoes, a massive credit card bill, and the same shit hanging around my neck. (That's a metaphor - just explaining in case you're simple.)

So, I will be shoeless for 184 days. No, that doesn't mean I'll be walking around barefoot, it just means that no new shoes to be purchased for 184 days. A shoe buying embargo. (Though the jury (which will, er, probably be me) hasn't decided yet if someone else can buy the shoes and then I'll give them money...) It has almost been one month already (not counting the little kinda, sorta exchange that may have meant I had to give money to get the shoes - that's not what is entailed in buying, is it?) and I'm beginning to feel this is a really good thing - maybe there will even come a day when I'm not known at work as "the girl with the shoes".

But somehow I'm pretty sure I will come up with a "logical" reason for why I need to buy new shoes before the 184 are over.

The sound of you and me

The sound of you and me is luminous. It’s standing in the front row at a gig, a summer breeze on naked skin through an open window, the buzz from the first draw on a cigarette, The Shining when you’re nine, a flickering candle flame. It’s scintillating. You and me - I like the sound.

The sound of you and me is suspect to others. Or perhaps obvious. We know too much, talk with authority about each other. A conspiratorial closeness is sensed in the way we stand as one and share affection without words. To others we sound like we belong together. And yet, we don’t.

The sound of you and me is silent. A drowsy head resting against a shoulder in a cab on the way home. A hand running through hair. A finger touching a cheek. A kiss. As we undress each other, our clothes whisper secrets as they fall to the floor.  Our eyes screaming the truth, but there is no sound.

The sound of you and me is borrowed. But it’s all I hear. 

An Open Letter to Alkaline Trio

Dear Matt, Dear Dan, Dear Derek,

I love you guys. I love you more than the stars in the sky: I love you more than dew drops on grass in early summer mornings: I love you more than the smell of fresh bread: I love you more than words. I want to have a family of tiny guitars, basses and drums with you. This is the most intense and one of the longest relationships I’ve ever been in.

You are with me every day – to keep my colleagues out, to make my commute bearable, to pick me up, to keep my pace and make me run faster, to scream down the walls of my apartment. Even grooveshark.com has figured out how much I love you as when I set it to play all my music on shuffle, it plays more Alkaline Trio than anything else. And then you just fuck me like this, like it means nothing. Of course, it’s up to me to end this, to walk away from what is clearly a situation which we won’t be able to resolve or overcome. I’m the one who needs to stop living in the past and realize we can never go back to what once was. But it’s so difficult. After all, it’s about 11 years now that you’ve been a part of my life, and I’m still not sick of you.

I know, it was my fault (or rather V.S.’s) I didn’t keep the one opportunity we’ve had for that one perfect date, and I still regret this more than a lot of other things I’ve done (and we know how many incredibly stupid things I’ve done over the years). But since then it has just been getting worse and worse and I can't take more of your disappointing behavior. You’re not only letting me and our relationship down, but you’re letting yourselves down too. The ache in my heart is indescribable. I’d rather put my head through a window, stamp on my iPod (which I love more than any person in this world, and possibly more than some of my shoes too, so that’s saying a lot), stub out cigarettes on my arms, than take one more second of this travesty our relationship has turned in to.

First it was Agony and Irony, then the even more horrible This Addiction, but I still stayed with you like the faithful oh so in love girlfriend I have been. But seriously, what the fuck! Why are you destroying some of the most amazing moments of our relationship with the complete and utter crap that is Damnesia? 

As I'm typing this, I'm listening to We've got so far to go (the original):

Soon ends our stay here and it's been fun.
So tonight I'll raise my glass to us.
'Cause we've talked so much I think we filled this ashtray twice,
And I'm pretty sure we emptied every bottle in the place...

How many times haven't we done just that? I really thought it would last forever, but our relationship will have to end here. To be prefectly frank: YOU GUYS SUCK ASS!

With a broken heart

Anna

Kisses

I’m trying to remember my first kiss, but it eludes me, the memory. How sad that such a fundamental experience has disappeared - no doubt due to excess alcohol consumption. I wonder how many kisses I don’t remember because I was too drunk or they were too insignificant.

                     

I do remember the boy I used to kiss during break times when I was 15. And there was the kiss which ended a friendship. The kiss that happened just because the guy was so tall (and I was so drunk). The kisses with my big love, who proclaimed that our lips were a perfect fit. I remember the pain of our last ever kiss. But I don't remember the kisses.

So many kisses and so little meaning.

In my mind I still see the surprise on your face as we kissed that first time. There have been other kisses between our first, and our last. But my lips, they remember every kiss. I wish ours had at least some little bit of significance.

I don’t want to be kissed again, now or forever. I want to remember at least this kiss. And I want the last imprint on my lips, the DNA, the saliva mixed with mine, to be from your kiss.

Kellys - it's got what it takes

For the first time in years, since before my dad passed away I think, last night I spent a night out on the town in Stockholm. First we went to a cool bar called Snotty, with good music and amazing interior. And when last call came we decided to continue to Kellys. 

Now, don’t get me wrong, Kellys is like a wet dream - I mean who doesn’t love a bit of trash metal at 1.30am! And there’s an interesting clientele. But I’m struck by how much it reminds me of when we were in our early 20's. It doesn’t make me nostalgic; instead it makes me grateful that that period of my life is well and truly over.

Kellys is a lot brighter than our beloved Trash Bar (R.I.P.) and you can actually see the people (Trash Bar was very very dark – part of its “charm”) but it takes me back to the time when you had to go to a bar to make sure you didn’t miss anything (or anyone), when you were already pretty plastered (I was remarkably sober last night – not from lack of trying); a place you spend so much time at that you know almost half the people there; and a place where that guy you’re “in love with” is likely to show. (Back in the days, that used to be a difficult logistic exercise, to make sure we all could go to the bars our latest obsessions could usually be found at.)

I’m not dressed for this place. Not nearly enough piercings, I’m not showing enough skin, and even if my tattoos were on display they’re not adequate in number or size, and without my usual black makeup I feel almost naked and not particularly rock n roll.

I people watch. I listen to conversations (the snippets I can hear). I feel lucky that I no longer spend my time going to specific bars on the off chance that someone might be there.

People move between the two bar areas, clearly looking for someone to start a conversation with, someone to hook up with before closing time. I keep my eyes averted to make sure that no one comes up to talk to me. But of course there are some cute guys there. One in particular. Very Swedish looking (which, to tell the truth, I normally find extremely off putting), with a lovely smile and one full sleeve and some great ink on the other arm too. I clearly allow my eyes to linger on him for a little bit too long: he waves at me sarcastically. Even though I couldn’t care less, it kinda flashes me back to my early 20’s when something like that probably would have ruined my evening.

Then Kellys redeems itself by playing some Foo Fighters – the first track I recognize since we arrived about an hour earlier. And then some Van Halen – Sammy singing “It’s got what it takes, so tell me why can’t this be love?”. I lose interest in my immediate surroundings as I wonder if it would have what it takes and why it can’t be love.

And I realize not much has changed since my early 20’s. Sure, my taste in alcohol is a bit more refined, I might not be so drunk that I’m likely to throw up at some point before I get home, my night is not depending on if some guy comes over to speak to me or not, and I don’t care if I’m bland and anyone notice me or not – I am highly visible when and where I want to be. But I do still wonder why can’t this be love.

But that’s not Kellys fault. So I get another beer and watch as a man in pink shorts is trying to convince my friend that we should go with him and his pal to an after-party in Skanstull. Luckily, we’re not in our early 20's any longer so instead we go home and raid the fridge and get to bed at the very respectable hour of 5am.