Fornever
I’m writing you a poem, you inconsequential whore
And as I write; I hope these words hurt like never before
Get yourself a razor and carve them in your vein
Let yourself bleed, just to feel my pain
I tried so hard, and I gave you my best
But I’m done now, because you’re just like the rest
‘I love you’ was just your pathetic cover up
Because sweetie, you never even gave a fxck
So baby girl; you should note that you’re so damn heartless
And when you read this poem, go slit your fxcking wrist
unfinished cliffhanger probly wont be finished deal with it
I watch the city lights morph into stars that I knew were up there, I just never could see. I watch the occupied, cracked sidewalks transpose with desolate dirt roads with no end in sight. I watch my home as it fades away into a memory whose knees will someday give in to the brutality of the present; the future. Still, after it’s disintegrated into the evening sky, I stare into the nothingness. “I want to go home,” I’d whisper. But I’d get no sympathy.
My eyes were sealed thirty minutes into the drive. Now it’s four hours, unruptured. Because with my eyes open, there’s nothing of interest in the world around me. Spotted cows, undulating hills, and a mottled blue and white sky morphing into a sunset. “A volcanic rainbow exploding underneath an awaiting canvas, splattering the country sky,” people say. Mum would say. I don’t give a damn.
When I do open my eyes, nighttime’s form melts my vision into a darkness worthy of being mistaken for the cold side of the moon. There are no flashing lights that I’ve grown accustomed to; no street lights to obscure my vision for a second or two as I drive underneath their path. I shut them again, sleep creeping up as if on cue. The final thought I have before it sinks its teeth into my neck is those people, my mother. Her sing-song voice: “It’s a shame you missed your first country sunset.”
Though I’m asleep, the stopping of the vehicle wakes me. “Dayton,” a man I no longer know whispers my name. It’s a subtle way of telling me that we’re here, and to get the fuck out of his life. Shame. I had hoped for an ‘I love you’ to be his final words to me. When I make eye contact with the man, he looks away. I know he intends to say more, and there is most-likely an ‘I’m sorry’ lodged in his throat. I don’t want to hear it, though. If he were truly sorry he wouldn’t have done this to me. So I grab a hold of my bag, open the car’s door, and I step out into the December snow, leaving the man to choke on his unsaid words.
I traipse up the snow-covered sidewalk with nothing but a bag full of my past. Just a few more steps and I start over again. In a new home, with new family in a new place. The night is cold, and I lack a jacket. I do not so much as own one. No inhabitant of California does. Scratch that—former inhabitant.
There are no sounds except for my snow-blanketed footsteps and the door when I’ve knocked. Without looking back, I notice that the man does not drive away, and I question if his tacit words have left him choking for too long. I’d sure hope so.
A lanky man answers a handful of seconds later. His face is tired. His cheekbones are sharp; his hair starkly black. He stares at me through hazy blue eyes that I cannot read. Soon enough, his pyknic lips curve into a smile and he cries out in a certain doubt: “Dayton?” I nod. Shock replaces the doubt and he calls for his wife. She comes running to the door adorned in confusion. “Come in,” she says. I step in, and the door closes with me on the inside, and everything I’ve ever known on the outside.
“I’m sorry for the mess,” the woman says. “We weren’t expecting you until tomorrow.” I laugh, and I’m tempted to speak what immediately erupts into my mind: “Dad wanted to get rid of me sooner.”
“Why don’t you take a seat? You arrived just on time, dinner was recently put into the oven.” The woman enlightens me, and I obey her command. The kitchen is small. A picture of a rooster is on nearly every plate displayed high atop the counters. The table is wood. The stove is white. Typical country.
“Are you hungry? We’re having turkey and mashed potatoes.” The man asks me, taking a seat to my right. I shift uncomfortably to my left in my seat at his proximity. Cityfolk sit across from each other. “I am, actually.”
“David, why don’t you go get Kaden?” The woman commands her lanky husband. He nods, rises, then disappears into another room. I watch the woman open the oven and poke at the dead turkey. She does it redundantly. I think she’s uneased by my presence. When she feels satisfied with the turkey’s pose in the oven, she turns to me. “Sweetie, I’m Linda. My husband is David, and our son’s name is Kaden. Did Victor tell you any of this?” Linda says with her right hand shoved up an oven mitt. I shake my head. “He only told me that you were my aunt.” The woman’s pencil-thin eyebrows furrow. “Your...Aunt?” She asks, her gaze floating away from me in a sea of doubt.
I’m about to open my mouth and contaminate the air with sarcastic words when David walks in the room. His hand is grabbing a young boy’s shirt, and his hair is suddenly disheveled. My eyebrows furrow in confusion until I look at the boy. Not much words can accurately describe him. His eyes are abnormally large and his pupils are as well; his face is pallid. His brown hair is dirty and greasy and falls in his face. He’s short and his sleeves have holes, his arms hang limply at his sides. And usually when people have that vacuous stare, it’s apparent that their gaze stops somewhere against the horizon. His, however, is nothing. Blank. Almost as if he can see past and through the horizon—all the way to Australia.
“This is Kaden,” David says to me. The kindness in his voice is dead and gone. Murdered somewhere along the journey to Kaden’s room and here, then replaced with a feigned foreign type. “And he’s..special.[i/]”
2012 ©
And as I write; I hope these words hurt like never before
Get yourself a razor and carve them in your vein
Let yourself bleed, just to feel my pain
I tried so hard, and I gave you my best
But I’m done now, because you’re just like the rest
‘I love you’ was just your pathetic cover up
Because sweetie, you never even gave a fxck
So baby girl; you should note that you’re so damn heartless
And when you read this poem, go slit your fxcking wrist
unfinished cliffhanger probly wont be finished deal with it
I watch the city lights morph into stars that I knew were up there, I just never could see. I watch the occupied, cracked sidewalks transpose with desolate dirt roads with no end in sight. I watch my home as it fades away into a memory whose knees will someday give in to the brutality of the present; the future. Still, after it’s disintegrated into the evening sky, I stare into the nothingness. “I want to go home,” I’d whisper. But I’d get no sympathy.
My eyes were sealed thirty minutes into the drive. Now it’s four hours, unruptured. Because with my eyes open, there’s nothing of interest in the world around me. Spotted cows, undulating hills, and a mottled blue and white sky morphing into a sunset. “A volcanic rainbow exploding underneath an awaiting canvas, splattering the country sky,” people say. Mum would say. I don’t give a damn.
When I do open my eyes, nighttime’s form melts my vision into a darkness worthy of being mistaken for the cold side of the moon. There are no flashing lights that I’ve grown accustomed to; no street lights to obscure my vision for a second or two as I drive underneath their path. I shut them again, sleep creeping up as if on cue. The final thought I have before it sinks its teeth into my neck is those people, my mother. Her sing-song voice: “It’s a shame you missed your first country sunset.”
Though I’m asleep, the stopping of the vehicle wakes me. “Dayton,” a man I no longer know whispers my name. It’s a subtle way of telling me that we’re here, and to get the fuck out of his life. Shame. I had hoped for an ‘I love you’ to be his final words to me. When I make eye contact with the man, he looks away. I know he intends to say more, and there is most-likely an ‘I’m sorry’ lodged in his throat. I don’t want to hear it, though. If he were truly sorry he wouldn’t have done this to me. So I grab a hold of my bag, open the car’s door, and I step out into the December snow, leaving the man to choke on his unsaid words.
I traipse up the snow-covered sidewalk with nothing but a bag full of my past. Just a few more steps and I start over again. In a new home, with new family in a new place. The night is cold, and I lack a jacket. I do not so much as own one. No inhabitant of California does. Scratch that—former inhabitant.
There are no sounds except for my snow-blanketed footsteps and the door when I’ve knocked. Without looking back, I notice that the man does not drive away, and I question if his tacit words have left him choking for too long. I’d sure hope so.
A lanky man answers a handful of seconds later. His face is tired. His cheekbones are sharp; his hair starkly black. He stares at me through hazy blue eyes that I cannot read. Soon enough, his pyknic lips curve into a smile and he cries out in a certain doubt: “Dayton?” I nod. Shock replaces the doubt and he calls for his wife. She comes running to the door adorned in confusion. “Come in,” she says. I step in, and the door closes with me on the inside, and everything I’ve ever known on the outside.
“I’m sorry for the mess,” the woman says. “We weren’t expecting you until tomorrow.” I laugh, and I’m tempted to speak what immediately erupts into my mind: “Dad wanted to get rid of me sooner.”
“Why don’t you take a seat? You arrived just on time, dinner was recently put into the oven.” The woman enlightens me, and I obey her command. The kitchen is small. A picture of a rooster is on nearly every plate displayed high atop the counters. The table is wood. The stove is white. Typical country.
“Are you hungry? We’re having turkey and mashed potatoes.” The man asks me, taking a seat to my right. I shift uncomfortably to my left in my seat at his proximity. Cityfolk sit across from each other. “I am, actually.”
“David, why don’t you go get Kaden?” The woman commands her lanky husband. He nods, rises, then disappears into another room. I watch the woman open the oven and poke at the dead turkey. She does it redundantly. I think she’s uneased by my presence. When she feels satisfied with the turkey’s pose in the oven, she turns to me. “Sweetie, I’m Linda. My husband is David, and our son’s name is Kaden. Did Victor tell you any of this?” Linda says with her right hand shoved up an oven mitt. I shake my head. “He only told me that you were my aunt.” The woman’s pencil-thin eyebrows furrow. “Your...Aunt?” She asks, her gaze floating away from me in a sea of doubt.
I’m about to open my mouth and contaminate the air with sarcastic words when David walks in the room. His hand is grabbing a young boy’s shirt, and his hair is suddenly disheveled. My eyebrows furrow in confusion until I look at the boy. Not much words can accurately describe him. His eyes are abnormally large and his pupils are as well; his face is pallid. His brown hair is dirty and greasy and falls in his face. He’s short and his sleeves have holes, his arms hang limply at his sides. And usually when people have that vacuous stare, it’s apparent that their gaze stops somewhere against the horizon. His, however, is nothing. Blank. Almost as if he can see past and through the horizon—all the way to Australia.
“This is Kaden,” David says to me. The kindness in his voice is dead and gone. Murdered somewhere along the journey to Kaden’s room and here, then replaced with a feigned foreign type. “And he’s..special.[i/]”
2012 ©