Decade of Fakers


i keep my soul hidden now beneath scattered tattered notebook paper pieces in outdated shoe boxes & deep between the covers of books, crisply underlined & strong- strong there, only there, with those words. most days i wake praying for rain; that tender soft world which it provides me with, drowns out the ever constant hum of traffic, arguing, the war on television, the growing sigh of humanity. here i am.
i’m driving down some typical road all the roads look exactly the same here the streetlights passing by one by one by one. counting patterns in the road & i’m watching the swarm of black birds hanging over the highway; they’re swimming in their own way; kissing the sky & diving back down. that comfortable feeling of breaking skin my blood may be the most priceless thing i own & maybe it’s for that reason i want to ruin it.


from here i can hear as the house braces, creaking, against the wind outside, this northeastern wind they called for this morning that has kept us all fluttering all day. cheap shots at eachother’s heart’s tonight– the train whistles blow in the distance & i know. feel it. can sense the hatred you’ve built up now; it’s like a fucking concrete wall.


now there he is again, that old friend of mine, that dark quivering taste again, stinging the back of my throat. it’s like the most sadistic kiss; whiskey, my friend in need.
it’s called masochism. that needing; inability to feel any sort of release on these nights; strange how different it feels now. i’m breaking down but i have to keep it hidden; it’s not something i even do intentionally now; i feel a little more numb the older i get. the pills relax me, they say. all i’m thinking is who am i making money for? prescriptions. pharmecutical companies.
that’s what they like to do. i found that out young. today i’m not even sure what’s happened to my body from all these pills, shots, patches, bullshit. i picture my body as a garbage disposal- i was fucked up to begin with, they throw in the chemicals and the hormonal birth control bullshit and i pour enough alcohol down my throat; i may as well be a bomb. a fucking ticking time bomb- life, you are a MOTHER FUCKER.

dear friend,
please come with me so we can watch the trains go by again, watch the trains go by & the city will dance with light above the river & things will be perfect the way they once seemed to be.
before knowing, before knowing so much– when you saw me as someone beautiful & someone innocent. there’s no prize here , no prize inside of me–
you found that out the hard way, didn’t you?
please come back with me now to the times which were lighter than today;
you must know that all i’ve ever really wanted was to be somebody else.
i don’t like me either.


“times are hard for dreamers.”


wearing this stocking cap i bought at the dollar store in the little town of Ocean Beach California right on the tip top edge of San Diego. i arrived there with twenty five dollars, a bag of pot (nearly empty), a sweater i didn’t look right in & a pair of borrowed boots. the ocean stretched for miles; it’s a really beautiful sight for a girl who spends her life looking at acres of oceans of wheat and plain;
the scariest time in my life we climbed the rocks out into the ocean complete amateurs the sand was surreal, SAND driving for hours; lost a part of my mind that night; i’ve lost bits and pieces of myself over the days some moreso than others…
(she sounded like an angel when she cried)