Day: February 24, 2005

Mishka, my dear mouse, is tiny. She lives in a petite body, curling to sleep so small that my hands can barely find her. She fits into my chest like a pet, her heat burning brightly. Sleep claimed her early, and me at four o’clock. We got up at seven:thirty. Re-discovering how quickly this house runs out of hot water is something I could have done without, as is that grimy feeling of putting dirty clothes on once clean, as if to say, “didn’t I wash this all off?”

I have a photoshoot when I get back into town. If anyone has any alt clothing they could lend me or make-up, it would be highly appreciated. I was asked to “Bring your own make-up, and at least 3 different outfits, if you got anything along the lines of leather/fishnets/etc please bring them.” but I don’t particularly have any of that, especially the make-up. I don’t believe I even have lipstick anymore. Not, of course, that I particularly know what to do with the stuff, but I’m sure I can hack something out once I have supplies. Even someone with me to pick some up or show the most basic application techniques would be a gift, I’m so unaccustomed to pencil greases. This would be a sooner than later sort of thing, so anything lent would be returned quickly. Also, any recommendations as to what to drag along would be fantastic.

Bryan’s come home and I’m still awake, sitting dark swathed in marijuana smoke. This place feels like I should know it, they’ve been living here three years. Catching up is interesting, it’s sweetness to be here, to talk late with Bryan, the closest I came to an older brother. We remember each-other, our words, our echoes. We don’t like the house they built on the ruin of where I used to live, but I know in his own way, he doesn’t know how to listen to me. From the speakers flow low music, songs entangled with too much emotion. It’s distracting, though required tonight. My heart isn’t here, it’s elsewhere. It’s tangled in long dark hair. My mouth spouts facts and truths and history rebounded on automatic, engaging without finding myself in the words. My tongue knows I’m in the wrong place, that this isn’t the time. I would tell myself that I shouldn’t have come, but I know my physics better than that. I know my orbit wouldn’t have changed, that I’m still falling always inward at the same distance. I wonder if this is a step toward accepting the mantle of adulthood, this continuing in spite of things, but it’s just always been here, part of my frame. I understand something is happening. I understand that it’s out of my control.

Take comfort that some of the fear is mutual. We are savage flowers, bleeding at the roots, utterly convincing.

I called and I felt like I shouldn’t have. I felt like I was talking to emptiness, a discussion wounding in its pointlessness. I won’t call again, I’m sorry. It’s not my place to phone out of the blue, no matter what I dearly wish. Perhaps I should not have pushed so on Monday, perhaps I should have let my forgiveness fall like Damocles Sword. The way you said goodbye made me feel like I’d made a mistake.

“…if he should die, take him and cut him out in little stars, and he will make the face of heaven so fine that all will fall in love with night…”

I’m spending tonight at Mishka’s. Maybe it will help to finally have someone to talk about how hard this is on me, what pressure it places on my heart and the inside of my skin. There’s no discussing anything with Gavin. We’re very quiet, locked into pleasant conversation with his parents or lost in the silence of travel, looking out windows and sporadically talking about painting. He’s not my lover, there’s little I might say. It’s a constant weight, knowing so many people and having no one to talk to.

She’s on the phone with her boyfriend now, which gives me time to write. After Gavin left, I outlined my love. “I’ve never met anyone quite like him before.” I told her, “And then he was gone, and all the colours, the light of the day, crumbled and went out.”

You’re not allowed to be a hollow shell, love. You have a life which requires living, you have someone you bed down with who needs you, I’m sure. It’s the toss of the dice and the tick of the most damned clock. Maybe I need to learn someone else to take my time where I am away from you, but I don’t think I can. You’ve stolen me and created desire. I can’t help myself from needing you. It’s your voice when I sleep, your eyes meeting mine in my dreams, but you’re already complete. I think I sold my soul for you, and in a perfect world, you would look at me and understand that. I could drown in your vision, my blind hands taking yours to hold me. The truth says that I don’t want my soul back, that I want to break as much as you do. These secrets don’t keep when we know each-other. My darkest admittance is that giving you grace is the vice of self betrayal, denying everything that I’m learning to love. My soul, Love, I don’t want to buy it back. Simple like a child, I only want you. If there were something to pray to, I would use your name to ask to make it worthwhile.

I can feel that he’s dying. There’s black in his mind, an iron vice around his heart. The sky is falling, (selfishly I wish it were ours), crushing capillaries in urgent communication. The stresses of metal, of steel burning. My name isn’t mentioned, he calls for an Angel.