Two Words

May 5, 2014
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I painted your face onto my own
wearing your shoes
staying in places
where you have stayed
and I forced myself to understand
why dirty bathrooms
with hot and greasy histories
were your favorite place.
And your favorite thing
looks like sugar
but isn't
but you think
it tastes just as sweet
when it makes you think you can fly.
I want to be what I thought you were.
I want to be what you told me you were.
I took a sniff.
I breathe air
and other things.
I drink water
and other things
and I put a devil into myself
on purpose
to see if I would like myself better
if I wasn't me.
Laughter erupts around me.
I'm new at this.
Older people
with flushed, sweaty faces
want to know if I like it
and I don't know if I do yet
I say yes because I've forgotten
who I am
I've forgotten everything
and suddenly
I know only one word.
My eyes have a mind of their own
wandering like gypsies
traveling to all crooks
and crannies
of rooms that people and spiders live in
alongside good memories
dark memories
and memories that nobody remembers.
That's when
I find myself looking at spider webs
that transform into piles of black poisonous thread
and when there's a hurricane
I see my whole existence twirling
and I feel like I have
flushed myself down a toilet
but when I fall
I laugh.
I was the only one who was spinning.
I don't trust that my feet
are my friends
because I always fall.
My head isn't my friend
because it keeps telling my hands
to shovel dirty things
into my
my mouth
my veins
until I become something else.
I'm crazy now.
I don't know if I like it, and the only word I know now is yes.
Nothing makes sense
until I drag myself to the toilet
and vomit out
all the words I never said
and wish I could,
falling asleep on the lid,
wanting someone to call
then realizing I'm my only friend.
I know how you felt just before you fell onto the lap
of the only person you thought
was willing to save you.
I know that you tilted the truth
when you told me
he's good
and he would use his strength
to rescue you
when you knew
he would actually use his strength
to put you out
like the butt of cigarette
throwing you on the pavement
because throwing you into a cab
would be too kind.
I know what the ground tastes like
when I tripped on nothing, smacking my face onto the floor,
kissing the carpet with my lipstick
and drooling
the last of my dignity
onto beer bottles
paper sticks
and foreign lips
that belonged to a stranger
who forgot my name the moment I spoke it aloud.
One night, I had forgotten everything
but right before I closed my eyes
I remembered the word

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