--I just want to put a few things out here--
Bicycling through the streets; my jacket tied around my
waist, headphones in my ears listening to a rap song that shouldn't be listened
to, but I don't care today because it's a little warmer than it's been for the
past 10 hundred years and I'm feeling it in my hair and crawling through my
bones; finding little nicks and knacks that should have been dusted by now, but
haven't been because it's just starting to get warm enough for me to venture
deep inside my roots and do the spring cleaning. I have those types of shoes
that I can't help but feel bad in and I think about how a boy might be driving
by and see me; riding on my girl-bike, listening to my boy-rap; wearing my
bad-kid shoes; looking like I have passion running through my wrists and disappointment in
my ankles; because that's exactly what I have. It's one of those times where
I've almost forgot about everything that's been playing inside my gut,
tormenting my liver and kidney stones; getting those feelings that I sometimes
think about, and I release a little too many
hormones and can't help but smile because I'm funny and I'm the
cool-kid-on-my-block; hell I'm the cool-kid-on-my-state. And I know what you're
thinking, because you're probably thinking the same thing as I am, but neither of
us want to admit it so we continue shifting our weight and sighing out;
pretending we own apartments and cars, and things that make us beautiful.
Sometimes we even go as far to pretend we have those apartments where the
tables are simple, and probably metal, and we have cool antique things around,
here and there; mugs and coffee makers, maybe an animal skin on the wall- and
some brick on the wall too. The kind of apartment where the plates don't match
and the pots and pans are green from rust but we still like to cook with them anyway;
because we just have to rinse them out in our dark sink full of questionable
dishes from Lord knows how long ago; but it's doesn't smell or bother us
because we have half-dead flowers hanging out the window. I have that watch
that isn't nice to look at but I like to peer down upon it so it looks like I
have better things to be doing instead of chatting with you, but we both know I
have nowhere to go, nowhere to be, and nothing to pretend I'm late for; but I
still look down anyway and roll my breath in and out, deeper even, hoping you
will understand I like being without you more than being with you. Of course
you don't understand, and I didn't expect you to anyway, yet you're still
talking while I'm planning my route to travel on my bike later; hoping to
receive some forgetfulness and an unpunctual appetite where I'll probably stop
at some super-indie-cafe down the street and sit alone at my window table and
once again pretend I have places to be and people to see; but I take my time
because I know my body has sunk in and my eyes are losing their color- I'm
still wearing my bad-kid-kicks and singing along to my music as loud and I feel
comfortable, which isn't very loud, but I'm singing and learning the depth of
my dyslexia; feeling dumb again, because I like to tell myself I have a lot of
things wrong but really I make things go wrong to give myself excuses of why
I'm usually distant and hazed over. My grey nail-polish is chipped and my socks
have holes in them; and so do my shirts but I still don't care, and if people
ask I pretend I didn't hear them or I tell them it has been there since I was
born; and they look at me and I shrug because I don't care much
for their opinions; but sometimes I get nervous and apologize more than what was actually needed. Eventually I end up riding
through the streets counting the cigarette-butts
and the lost jackets and the shoes tied onto the telephone wires; imagining
wonderful scenarios where most of them I end up with bleach blond hair
and I'm the President of the United States of America. I have my
bad-kicks up on the desk; tooth-pick in my mouth and the country is up in
flames; while my secretary is knocking on the door screaming for me to do
something; but I somehow find enjoyment in the lack of power and desire I have
to make things right, while slowly the screen is being zoomed in on my face and
the background of utter disfigurement is out of focus; and the little, but
faithful audience soon realizes this has all been an analogy for my heart; and
how it will go up in flame, while I play my pride card and win all
the money.
Lord forbid.
-s
-s
