that follows all other blogs I've written in and abandoned throughout my life. I want this to be a record of what is left of my attempts to walk in authenticity and express it. Something I can't quite clearly see, but am desperately trying to salvage. Without it there is no other me I can live with. My attempts at expression be it words or stains or lines on paper have so far been futile. I have failed at creating and yet I try, hoping to remember what it felt like. I have been barred at the gate and even though I look inward from the periphery, everything has gone silent; not relinquishing even a morsel and so I starve.
Red mascara on night lips and the parting of ways Songs only nightingales sing in a bar on the other side of town smoke brown teeth and hair wet with disappointment clinging like teen girls in catherine wheel romances a burning, singular dance rubbed into an ashtray littered with regret seeping into the dark alleys where sunlight does not touch a warm mattress in a cool room filtered dirty brown coffee from last night's rendezvous with - not the void we made secret plans but they crumble when morning comes the party is over and everyone leaves and you clear the mess in the kitchen sink and the room where they played the game with the red party hats and find a coin under the seat where no one sat that your niece gave you for - not your birthday and I'm etched like people holding hands made of paper that unfold accordion running in the background making slow and mournful sounds did someone die? Yes. But I wasn't there at your funeral or your wedding ...
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