Wednesday, April 17, 2013

Aftertaste

The aftertaste of coffee is bittersweet
The memory of a flavor
And the knowledge that the caffeine is what's keeping you awake and warding off the oncoming headache
That you know you'll fight away with Advil washed down with more coffee (or a Venti green tea, you just never know.)
And here comes the cliche:
It's incredibly reminiscent of humans.
The aftertaste of Sandy Hook,
Lives lost and a marathon being run in support; a bombing at the finish line.
Please don't think I'm making a sick joke.
Nice things seem to get ruined a lot.
And the aftertaste can bring you back and bring you back and bring you back and
At this point, it seems domestic.
As in, not alien. As in, a citizen.
The aftertaste is getting less sweet and more bitter.
And so, like coffee, we need something to make it seem better,
We need a placebo,
But it might just be knocked back with another disaster, and
Maybe it will never take effect.
I didn't mean to bring a terrorist attack into this, I promise.
I've been doing my best to avoid it so that I don't go into panic mode
Because when I get involved,
I get scared.
(This is true for many things; not just people dying in horrible ways.)
(That probably means I'm not good at people because I'm scared.)
(You learn something new everyday. No. Who am I kidding, I know that.)
(I simply choose to ignore it because I'm scared of knowing myself. Tired of it, even.)
(Then why am I still writing?)
(Goddamnit.)

Sunday, April 7, 2013

Stream of Consciousness

Stream of consciousness,
My thoughts sans censorship
(The inside of my head is a place I would like to leave)
Before the plane ride car ride tram ride
I spent an hour in the shower with my fists against my knees
Trying not scream out.
Don't shout,
Don't let them hear you,
Don't let them help.
Don't pull out the knife, it will only make the bleeding worse,
And don't twist it, it will rupture more organs,
And don't think about it, because that makes it real.
When people say, are you okay?,
Tell them that if you do not think about it it does not exist,
And you do not want to run away in the night,
And you see yourself as being a normal part or society,
And your entire body is not telling you to rebel,
And the person you want to kiss you is not the person who stabbed you in the first place.
This was never supposed to be about him,
And yet here I am
Day after day after day,
I do not think about it so it does not exist and
If I want to kiss him it is becoming someone else's problem and
When he says his trampoline is a good place to talk I do not want to cry.
My stream of consciousness is not a stream,
More of a river by now,
Just this and that and one after the other
Milliseconds apart and making me wish I could turn my thoughts off.