i want to have meaningless legs.
"I'd rather drink my chocolate milk and read a comic book than hear about unpleasant stuff." - d. f. wallace
all writing © sarah e. pace, 2013
I am abounding. When the sky is tint with blood-orange and feathered gray, my toes are still curling at the sound my words make. Reverb in tenths. The vibrating sorrow of conversation in the still sunlight of your blue bed, chasing fragments of the pale childhood we’re all fleeing at night, and the empty arms we wake with, another’s breath on your neck in the post-morning breeze of the Great Lake city I invaded, where my own surmounting goodness is an unachieving fallacy directed straight at you. Spine-first in the tow-away zone of a black and abysmal life. I put lips to a bottle and stare right through you, an ache I’ll never grow beyond. I’ve been here before. Deep in the trench warfare of an upended sense of self-worth. I’m going to die blue and deflated, elated at the stretch of white above me. This I know.
When I remember you’re dead and forget its forever, I want to destroy. I love you with an ocean’s force. To every corner of its still-ache bottom.
sitting in corners, delicately reconfiguring the ways in which i have loved and unloved you in past months, and coming up with empty hands and lungs full of phlegm. when the question of whether you’re a good person or a good man arises, the answer is swelling in your gut. some unspoken fallacy in my head overrides what i think of you regardless of past actions or resonant gifts or where we’re going in october, and to reconcile it i sacrifice good will and a soft hand to make you feel validated when you lay next to me in bed. someone once told me the sternum can withstand two tons of pressure before it bursts and shatters, spinning calcium through the tissue of the heart; but there is no altitude from which you can drop me that will cause any bone i own to break. there is no amount of blame you can place on yourself for ripping the cords right out of my throat that can, in any way, compare to the amount of suffering i have caused in my own life and in the lives of those i’ve loved. i will travel great distances to disarm you in ways no other woman was able. i will plunge feet first into the cold and icy lakes you write about to find something worth sewing into me while you stagnate in awe on the shore. this i know.
currently sitting back-first on the destructive road toward dismantling all i’ve built to my personal satisfaction until only my bones are left smoldering at the exit to my life.
he’ll never love you like he loves his fingers when they do meaningful things.
lilshame asked: I'm reading you/ liking it. Are you published anywhere? Can I buy nice words from you someway?
i’m unpublished and not trying as hard as i should be at 22 to get somewhere other than where i am now. i’d like to get some sort of literary journal together, but for the time being all i have is a weak-minded 77-follower blog on which the neglected void of emotions that is my own head take some feeble shape. thank you for enjoying. stick around please; i’ll make it someday.
i understand why i lay in bed most mornings recounting vivid dreams in which he and i are separated by some malignant and unknown trench. i worry most that the way i bleed isn’t good enough, or that my fingers don’t touch him the way he wants to be touched. i worry that the way he cries in my mis-colored night-visions of him beside me asking me to stay warrants the severe concern that he would rather me not. we walk arm-in-arm down streets, drunk and unaware that, some day, one of us is going to mis-step so abruptly that we’ll grasp at each other with phantom limbs, holding onto a pain that’s been here all along, the unsurfacing guilt of not being a whole of a person, not being good. from what very little i understand about the direction of my life and the people in it, i approach him like a solecism, a wrongly worded paragraph i’ve mapped for years and only just now realized i’ll forever be unworthy of, crossing the threshold of my own tiresome hold. let me tell you about the safety on a gun. about the riptide heartswell of wanting him this way forever, loving him despite faults and within the current of becoming someone capable of staking a claim.
he is the center, the dream i kept at, the clawing and gnawing at someone who cannot leave.
“if you weren’t a good writer, everyone would know your name.”
G O O D A N D L O U D: a project in fourths.
on monday mornings, i will send you a prompt. you have until sunday night to complete the prompt and send it back to me. after a month, i’ll compile the best pieces into a booklet of the printed variety and dispense it as necessary to buyers and purveyors of the elite literati (i don’t know who these people are, but i will find them). we’ll begin may 1, 2013.
i want the raw and bloody. your to-the-core deep analyses of the spine.
if you’d like to cooperate, please send me a detailed or not-so-detailed statement of intent at: firstname.lastname@example.org
an illustrious collection of muscle and spit, that’s me. the jaw-clenching shudder during a cold wind. in my head things are stacked in a sensible manner; live til i’m dead, die when i can. my knuckles are cracked from the hard work of keeping quiet, sacrificing my good efforts for your shallow definitions of intimacy. trust is the drowning of guilt face-down in a pillow — eyes full of blood, throat full of nothing. but when love is the bone, and i’m shrinking beside you, nothing hurts better than being the wound.