Jinked

Today was such a beautiful day. It felt so nice to wear a tanktop. The jeans I had on were another matter: they weren’t so nice. I don’t know how women can wear ultra low-rise jeans. I kept feeling like they were falling down and that a chunk of my ass was showing. Don’t think I’ll be wearing them again. Good thing they only cost a buck from the thrift store.

I think it would be fun to make a zine or something out of the random things I say to people I don’t know in public. It could act as a log, a path of progression, and be amusing at the same time. I like writing things like that. Funny, I never thought I would enjoy slice of life. I was too entrenched in fantasy as a child to care much about the real world.

When I clean my apartment I listen to music, and today I dug up my old Tori Amos CDs. I think she influenced a lot of my writing, especially my poetry, when I was younger. It’s funny to imagine a sixteen-year-old me listening to The Choirgirl Hotel, my most favorite Tori album, lying on my bed while scribbling free-form poetry like crazy in a battered spiral notebook. I remembered a lot of things listening to the album Boys For Pele too. I even got through To Venus And Back.

Music ties my life in all sorts of ways. Strings and pretty bows. I remember my friend Jai giving me the Imogen Heap song “The Walk” soon after I cut things off with Tre and fell into darkness. I like mirrors in music. They give me the voice I lose when I crumble inside myself. Like when I don’t want to feel like an empty shell walking with blank eyes through the hours. I hate empty eyes. Hate them. I still write about them though.

I worry about how I’m writing him. Not that it really matters; he’s been dead for nearly five years. Inside myself, I know he’s never coming back. I know because he had opportunity many, many times, many snatches of vulnerability, sadness, desperation and never once did he jump on it. He is dead.

I swallowed him.