Saturday, January 11, 2014

(not untitled, but no title)

I've never really been able to explain Imogene in a coherent fashion. 

I think it's because the so-called living don't understand what it's like being trapped between the two worlds like I am. between here and there. between now and then. they don't get how I can't assign myself to one or the other, life or death. they certainly don't grasp that Imogene, my Imogene, my beginning, my end, was more than just a girl, a person. she was a smile. she was a kiss. she was a laugh, a fuck, a teardrop. she was a place. she was a time. she was a feeling. 

when I met her, it was like getting in touch with an old friend after years of separation. as we told each other about ourselves and pretended to get acquainted, there was a recognition, a familiarity, a sigh of "oh, I already know you" and relief at finally being reunited. 

when I kissed her, it was everything you grew up expecting kisses to be. it was like the point in the movie where the hero, whom you'd never doubted all along, finally gets the kiss from his object of affection that you wanted him to have in the very first act.  it was the first spoonful of pudding in your grade school lunch box, cool and sweet. the way it slipped over your tongue and slid down your throat with ease, conforming perfectly to the shape of your mouth, coating your lips with a light sheen of happy that left you hungry for more as soon as you licked it off. 

the nights we stayed up worshipping each other, the nights that were ultimately when she first set hooks in my heart, were just like the concerts you went to as a teenager. the exhilaration of the sound waves being so strong they were tangible, bodies packed in, sweaty and excited, like Alaskan salmon battling to get upstream. it was those nights I fell for her like a stage dive, that feeling of "I don't know what the fuck I'm doing but I'm gonna do it anyway!" that sensation of your toes leaving solid ground, a nervous, electric free fall, and finally, being caught by eager, frantic hands. 

being in love with her was a drive in the fall. the colors were vivid, the ride was smooth, and the air itself was enough to make you feel alive. 

being without her was a week of insomnia. the flies on the wall saw you pace and moan, saw you whimper and turn circles in your bed until you (almost on accident) wound your sheets into a makeshift noose. they buzzed about your head, following you from room to room to empty pointless room, all the while making a constant droning sound that you hear even still.

getting her back was the shower after a very, very long, hard day. she was the water you lifted your face up to, no reservation or hesitation, letting it drench you from the top of your tired, weary head and rush it's way down over your sore throat, your aching shoulders, your protruding hips, down the backs of your trembling knees.  imagine letting her wash the day and the exhaustion and everything that wasn't her off your flushed exposed skin while the steam rose and filled your lungs and cleared your senses. and when you just can't take the downpour of hot and the thick, wet clouds anymore, you turn the water off, wrap yourself in terry cloth love, and emerge a new person. 

losing her was the worst ill you've ever been. the pain and tired, coupled with the "how?" and the "why,?" covered in "ohmyfuckingGODwillthiseverbeover?!"  it was the oaths you swore to a god you usually don't believe in, laying in your own toxic sweat, swearing things you don't usually mean but you would mean them this time if only this misery would stop, or even lessen. it was a car wreck, terrifying and chaotic. it was trading your existence for the color red; like going from having and appreciating all five senses and the variety that they afford you, to the only thing you know being the touchtastesmellsoundlook of searing heat. 

but these aren't specific memories, experiences.  this is just the closest I can get to describing a girl, the girl I lived and died for. the girl who took me aback, took me aside, took me from behind; I was so taken with her. explaining that to the average joe has only ever gotten me the kind of glassy-eyed, slack-jawed stare that so often precedes "do you want some fries with that?" 

I have trouble believing that anybody who didn't know her, and know her the way I did, was ever really alive anyway. 

she's my heart, my lungs. 

she's my blood, my air. 

...haunted or not, ghost or not, the fact is she's still fucking gone. 


Friday, January 10, 2014

cotton fever

sometimes, being haunted isn't that bad, not really. 

every time she was taken from me before, I would scrape the walls of my skull, I'd push my way through the sinewy mass around my brain like walking through a roomful of cobwebs. I would let my footsteps echo across the empty surfaces as I made my way down a mental hall of mirrors and memories. I would really feel the lonely, like one feels the winter cold in their bones. 

sometimes I'd shut myself inside this backstabbing, treacherous mind I've got and think her name for hours on end. 

now that I'm haunted, I'm never alone, not really. 

it has it's downsides though. sometimes when a real, live person speaks to me I can't hear them over the breathy angel sighs she makes in my ear. she always keeps herself wrapped around me, like a mink stole, filtering their words, only allowing the ones she knows I like to reach me.  sometimes she does them the same favor, and sifts through my response so that by the time it goes from my throat to my mouth to the air to the opposition, she's removed all but what she knows they want to hear as well. sometimes she plays mediator, protecting me from their coldness, and keeping my heat insulated, trapped closely between just the two of us. when she rests, nuzzled against my neck and humming softly, I forget how to speak. 

but sometimes, it's the only thing I know how to do. I'll lay still as death, clutching at the wispy smoke of a ghost, letting my words flow through her, talking in circles about absolutely nothing but her mouth, or her kisses, or her lush lavender scent. sometimes she'll talk with me, we'll pore over where she went, what she misses, which side of the coin it's better or worse to be on. 

after times like that, though, I always wake up. 

some well intentioned interloper will shake me by the shoulders, scream in my face with warm, moist air that feels thick with the living. 

"you're so cold," they'll say. "I thought I'd lost you," they'll say. 

you never had me. I was never here. 

I'm every bit the ghost she is, looking for her every where I turn. looking for a sign so I can cross over to the other side. looking for where I belong, looking for home. looking for my heart, sticky and bloody, beating haphazardly in the grasp of the girl who stole it.  she stitches together all its broken pieces with her sharp needle stare; she sews straight, even x's with words like "I need you." 

it takes a long time for wounds like that to close. 

but while I'm looking for a light at the end of the tunnel, I pull my ribs further apart so she can climb into the hollow space she took that traitorous muscle from. I want her to curl up where I can keep her safe, where I used to hide her memory, and let her keep mending it. let her hold my heart in place while it heals, let her sleep soundly where she belongs. 

which is, of course, with me. 

my beginning, my end. 


When I sleep, I dream of her.

In my waking life, I swear to never indulge that kind of obsession again, to never fall prey to temptation and addiction and hallucination again. I won't do it, I won't bear the pain, or the loss.

But I do bear it, the worst of it, over and over.

I bury her every night.

I relive her death every night.

Sleep or no sleep, moon or no moon, I lower a cheap pine box into the ground, with numbers on it instead of a name. I throw a handful of dirt and rose petals on top. I say my goodbyes, quietly tearful some nights, hysterical and violent on others. I say goodbyes that I never got to tell her, and things I didn't think of until she was already gone. some nights they're hardly goodbyes at all, just accusations and insults born of confusion and hurt and lonely, lonely, lonely...  I trudge off, turning my back on the hole that my heart lives in now.

And then I wake up and the mourning is fresh. The grief is as raw as it ever was. Imogene, my Imogene, is a memory. A tri-fold pamphlet with an outdated picture and a poem I didn't write.

She's as gone as she ever was.

...which is to say, she isn't gone.  At all. Not really.

Now she's the wind that turns my hair unruly. She's the rain that runs slick down my up-turned face, dragging ribbons of mascara with her. She's the ache in my stomach.

She's a ghost, silent and cold, descending from her watchful spot on the ceiling in a haze of TV static. On nights I can't sleep, she settles on my skin like mist so she can weep into my pores while I lay there and stew. So she can gather in the corners of my eyes, pool in the hollows of my collarbone. So she can work her oppressive chill into my sheets and pillows, grind into my mattress with every fretful toss and regretful turn. On nights I can sleep, she lays next to me like a thick blanket of fog, watching my eyes twitch under their lids as I dream of her funeral again and again.

Why do you keep burying me? she asks. I'm right here, she insists. She walks next to me at the supermarket, sits by my side at dinner, politely requesting attention in her quiet, unassuming way.

I walk.
I chew.
I smile, swallow, laugh.

I'm the only one that sees her.

When she loops her icy arms around me in the middle of a crowded room, I stiffen and excuse myself to collect my bearings. It's difficult to hold a conversation with an honest-to-goodness person when the dead half of your soul is draped around you, nipping at your throat, begging for kisses. 

I often ignore her.  I more often can't.

When I'm leaning over the sink, staring at myself in the mirror through a matted curtain of snarled hair, she sits on the counter next to the tap and brushes it out of my eyes with cool fingers, just like she always did.  Sometimes the lavender is so strong it makes me gag, and I double over and spit things I don't mean across the faucet, watch things I do mean circle the drain.  She rubs my back and holds my hair to the side.  Sometimes I get fed up, and whirl on her in a fury, matching her coolness with a heat of my own.  "Why are you doing this?" I'll hiss at her.  "You're dead.  You're gone.  So just fucking go." Sometimes she just looks at me sadly and fixes my collar, tucks my bangs behind my ear.  Sometimes she opens her mouth to respond, but I can't hear her because somebody else has come into the room and asks me, "I'm sorry, what did you say?"

She's right in front of them, the most beautiful thing they could ever hope to see, and nobody sees her.

I do.

I turn the water off, pull my hair up, and check my face one final time before I turn out the lights.

I'm late for a funeral.

Thursday, November 1, 2012

in matters of recovery, as with revolution, you either triumph or you die.

they say ignorance is bliss, and I had no idea until he plopped a wet lump of beige-colored clay into my hands. 

"mix," he instructed. 

I looked at the lump. I looked at him. at the lump. at him. 

"I beg your pardon?"  

sighing deeply and with a slight roll of those vivid eyes, he sat down and pulled me into his lap with him. his arms reached around to rip a small piece off the mass, and he worked it between his fingers, all the while staring pointedly at me. 

it was stubborn at first, staunchly maintaining its rigidity, but his hands were relentless.  I watched his knuckles turn white with effort, his veins slithered smoothly across trained muscles, and sure enough, the clay began to give.  the heat from his skin took the chill off the topmost layer and those determined fingers pushed it further in with steady, measured kneading.  before long, the piece had been heated through and ended its struggle. he persisted. not satisfied with just having warmed it, he continued until gave in to him completely, the toughness of the raw material reduced to... well, putty. it flowed silkenly under his touch, welcoming him so blatantly I could see the lines of his fingerprints embossed on the surface. 

I don't often feel kinship with inanimate objects, but somehow I'm sure I knew exactly what that clay was going through.  

...all the way up to when he gave it to me and wrapped my hands around it by covering them with his. now the damn clay was on its own, because I hadn't the slightest. 

"mix," he said again. 

under the penetrating eye of the art nazi, I timidly tried to recreate his movements, glancing up at him occasionally to verify that I wasn't making some drastic blunder that would cause the fabric of time to unravel and the world as we know it to cease existing. 

I looked at the clay. I looked at him. I looked at my hands, my shoes, my insecurity, I looked up and away. 

he never took his eyes off me. 

I had likened him to the calm before a storm in the beginning.  now the comparison suspended itself thickly in the air around us, saturated it like the humidity before Florida rain.  his eyes today were crystal clear, the waves shushed and stilled, their constant bombarding on my skin replaced  by the weight of his intent. 

I'd spent much of my life greedily  keeping myself from other people, and when I met her, Imogene, Imogene, my beginning, my end, I all but threw the gates open, practically kicked the fuckers down, and let the parts of me that had been carefully saved and preserved flood her. it swept her away. a twinge of guilt licked at my insides, maybe she drowned in it.  well she was gone now and it was gone now, the reserves emptied, and I was exhausted from expelling all that energy on such a tiny little thing.  she was little, too. frail might not be the word I'm looking for but it's the word I'm going to use.  sitting in his lap at that exact moment, the lump of clay cooling in my immobile, incompetent hands, something akin to all the secrets I'd been keeping snaked out towards him. it creeped past the gates that once held it as they drooped lamely from broken hinges.  right before it reached his sternum, he abruptly stood, and I went flying with all the grace of a politician's smear campaign. 

but once I steadied myself, I mustered the courage to look
back into that uncharacteristically calm ocean, and my secrets, at his level, stared him down too. 

he never took his eyes off me. 

they say you can feel a good strong storm brewing in your bones, but my bones felt like mush. instead the empty rooms of my recovering heart, where Imogene used to hide, echoed with electricity that rumbled in clouds I couldn't see.   the walls shook, reminding me needlessly that, pending background check and security deposit, we were open for another tenant. it had taken awhile, the last one had left the place in shambles, but it cleaned up real nice. 

the storm was coming.  I could almost smell it. 

a few blocks away, some two stories and six feet below us, a cheap pine box lay buried, stamped with numbers I couldn't recall. 

Monday, September 17, 2012

the ways i wanted her were innumerable.

the depths to which i felt her were unspeakable.

the things i wanted from her... indescribable.

because really, how do you say it?  how do you tell someone you love them so much you could die?  there aren't even words for the ways i loved her.  i could hardly bring myself to exhale because i wanted to do was continuously, fluently breathe her in.  it was like she didn't have enough skin to touch, like i couldn't kiss hard enough.  like i couldn't root myself as deep as deep as deep as i wanted to go.  i wanted to crawl into her bones and replace her marrow so every time her blood pumped it would be because of me.  i wasn't obsessed, i was consumed, and i wanted to consume her in turn.

now that she's gone... i'm starving.

and i'm tired, i'm so tired.  i can't rest without her soft breathing on my throat, i can't sleep without the warmth of her fragile body against mine.  the shallow rise and fall of her perfect chest, with its glassine surface and pillows of pure fucking freedom that waited for me, called to me, day in and day out, night after night after perfect, memorable night. 

i shouldn't be surprised that she's gone, because everything she did was like a memory waiting to happen.

every way she moved captured everyone around her, a flutter of angel wings waiting to be captured themselves.

captured by imaginations, by desires, by every wanting, wakeful eye that had the pleasure of misfortune of seeing them.

imogene was the kind of beautiful that broke your heart, the kind of beautiful that made you wish you were someone else.  someone better, someone stronger, someone more like she deserved.  but imogene, my imogene, my beginning, my end, she wasn't one to be predicted.  she deserved palaces.  her sweet angel kisses and her sweet angel sighs could tip the heads of kings, could have emperors craning their necks to hear her words.  instead she spoke to the degenerates, to the dregs of society, to me.

she had a smile like sunshine.  it broke through the clouds of whoever the fuck you thought you were and it warmed the coal your insides had become.  it coaxed and nurtured life from the impossible recesses of the jaded.  it melted the cold of all the years you knew before her and promised future, promised life.

obviously, it was a fucking liar.

because she's gone, and i'm alone, and without her...

i'm nothing.

Wednesday, September 12, 2012


I knew somewhere in the recesses of my mind that those were sirens.

But to me, each screeching wail was like a shot to my chest, the aching hollow thing my knees were drawn up tight into.  the delicate skin grew raw from heaving against an immobile wall of denim for God knows how long.

A young, baby-faced cop had knelt in front of me, stammering his laundry list of questions.  He was wet behind the ears and his green was showing, and my unresponsiveness only sent him further into awkward shyness but manners had escaped me at that particular moment. 

I was busy watching blue gloved hands roam her stretched out body, extend her arms, poke and prod that skin, that luscious silk that used to set me on fire. 

I wanted to sweep them aside and lay on top of her, I wanted to protect her fragile pride and maintain the strict physical barrier that she broke only for me.  The daggers from my eyes dulled significantly from having to break through a thick, blank stare.

"THAT'S MINE!" my thoughts screamed savagely.  "THAT'S MINE, IT'S MINE, THAT'S FUCKING MINE!"

Instead I caught my tongue between my teeth and bit down until I tasted a flood of rusty brine.

The calloused brute cupped her chin and tilted her face away from him, towards me.  She still looked absolutely perfect.  But when the tip of his stupid fumbling finger grazed the outside of her beestung mouth a squawk fled my throat and flapped away without my permission.

"She doesn't like to be touched!"  I was begging him, more than anything.

He looked up at me briefly and continued his inspection.

Her skin was like pallid rose petals and I swear I could see the clumsy fingerprints he left, dirty little bruises as proof of his invasion.  The more he handled her the more she started to look like bruised, old fruit.

I could see it in his eyes, that look I had met daily in my prison by the lake.  He raised one cynical brow, a little jerking motion upwards that said, "Just another overdose."

My inner voice screamed again, emphasizing each syllable like an impetuous child.


Somewhere in my hysterics, they had all filed out and I've been alone ever since.  However long that's been. 

With Imogene gone, really truly gone, I lived my life in stop motion.  In strobe light.  Every action a pose for a tragic, poignant still.


The conditioning I had put myself through in the months leading up to now all fell to the wayside.  I slid closer and closer to the shadow of my old self, and I eventually began to slip through the cracks of it.

I wanted to slip through the cracks of the world to escape the cracks in my heart.

I wanted her back. 

Imogene, Imogene, my beginning, my end.

For some strange reason, I thought about the little side table we'd hover over together, cross-legged and smiling.  We drank and laughed as we let sobriety and the night and our clothes fall away.

I remembered how we used to lay on our backs, eyes closed tight and clinging to each other to combat the spinning of the room and whisper our promises again and again.  Now that I think of it, I don't really seem to recall her promising much of anything. 

But me... I promised the world. Several worlds, in fact.

I promised my flesh and bones, brittle though they were.  I promised my blood, the toxic sludge.

I promised to follow her from this life to the next and the next and the one after that.  I promised to find her again, in every form we might exist.  In every life. 

I'm pretty sure she at least promised to be found.

But now that she's gone all I find is that I'm a flip book of devastation.  Frame by frame by page by still of sad, sloppy heartbreak.

Me staring vacantly into the mirror.

Snap. (Flip.)

Me standing lonely at the foot of our bed.

Snap.  (Flip.)

Me with a belt between my teeth.

Snap.  (Flip.)

Me, unconscious with my chin to my chest.

Snap.  (Flip.)

It drives me crazy that I can't even say I miss her.  Because really, when half your limbs are ripped from your body, you don't fucking MISS them.  You grieve them, you mourn them.  You curse the motherfucker who took them from you and you loathe the sorry motherfucker you've become.  Fucking worthless.

Sometimes I sit in silence so long my heartbeat is deafening.

Sometimes I scream at nothing so long I forget I'm doing it.


Sometimes I wish I had fed us both to that vulture after all.

As soon as I can gather enough breath to hold it, I'm going to go find her.

My beginning, my end.

My want, my wish, my world, my everything, MINE.

Wednesday, September 5, 2012


something was wrong. 

i didn't know what, I couldn't put my finger on it, but something was amiss. 

I tried and failed to force my eyes open, sleep stuck in the corners and held the lids down. I unlocked the death grip my arms had on each other and attempted a stretch. the awkward movement was blocked by something, and a sheet of silk fell across my flushed, drool crusted face. 


my eyes snapped to attention, the hardened glaze tearing the delicate skin and uprooting lashes, and I fought to blink back the moisture while I searched her face. 

and then the world ended. 

my world, your world, any world, it was over. 

her typically pale skin had a light bluish cast, her bee stung lips lacked their usual flush. her lashes, sooty feathers, reached impossibly far down her chilled stone cheeks. 

oh my god. 

oh my god oh my god oh my god. 

Imogene my Imogene my beginning my end. 

my want my wish my world. 

my everything. 


I couldn't even weep. 

I wrapped my arms back around her and nestled my head in the crook of her neck. I sucked gulps of air in frantically, hopingprayingbegging for that lavender burn.


I had spent a long time hating the way she tempted me. I spent years upon years wanting something that was purposely out of my reach. I dreamt of her, I woke for her, I sustained myself on nothing but her scent and her taste for weeks at a time.  I flip flopped between love and hate, need and want, addicted and desperate to escape. 

but I always went back.  probably because she was always there. 

I built my existence on her. every fleeting thought hinged on her.  she was the questions I asked myself, and she was the answer to all of them. she was the problem and the solution.

she was like nothing I'd ever seen before. 

now that my arms circled her unresponsive waist, the lavender rush nowhere to be found, tears slipped from the eyes I no longer had a need for. 

drip, drip, drip. 

she used to be my morphine. 

drip, drip, drip. 

she used to be my muse. 

the beautiful, articulate ribbons of hot pink scars roping around my extremities... that art was for her. 

I pulled her closer thinking maybe just maybe I could pull her in.

my tears slipped down my face and into her hair, matting it messily on the wax paper her skin had become. 

Imogene, my imogene, my beginning. 

my end. 

my heart broke.