Mess-Lauren Singer
Mess
By Lauren Singer
every muse, wasted, underswept by demons in an asphalt trunk. the night
lingers like stale breath caught in a basin of dirty water. every eyelid is
a quivering pinprick towards delusion. the lights are on, only for the sake
of feigned company. there is none. not tonight.
the clothes strewn haphazard on the shag rug; lived in/loved in. in your
uprightness i have found the rigidity of faith. it is a broken seldom that i
turn my phrase towards you in earnestness and ask for recognition.
being a woman means that you have to judge yourself constantly. often for no reason at all. every part of my body is a grounds to cattle prod and snicker at. everything is a controlled means to some distant end that makes me feel more denied and human. every hunger pain or full plate or cigarette a proof positive self examination of fight or flight to the degree of dissection. it’s not enough you want me. i’m fucked up man, i’m doing you a favor.
repressed recollection: fifteen. virginal promiscuous. in the back of his
mother’s car, borrowed. blue cloth upholstery, right up to my face, the
microfibers getting into my mouth as he clumsily pulls my bra straps and
chews awkwardly the skin of my neck. his dick throbbing into my thigh, i
feel like i’m achieving something. i’m jerking him off and putting him in my
mouth. he grabs the top of my head and he’s muttering, just talking bullshit
to himself and gasping. and he says, "i love you" and starts coming. i gag
immediately, spit the shit all over the upholstery and grab him by his
collar bones, bring him close into my face covered in semen and ask him what he said. "nothing." and then i’m screaming at him, hysterical, "don’t ever fucking say that to me. not like that. not like that!" and i’m walking alongside his car leaving him with his dick in his hands. and he thinks i’m fucking crazy.
you, lying next to me, your hand on my face. the word, "beautiful" and it’s
accusatory implications. and what makes me beautiful? the concave of my
hipbones digging into the mattress, the buds of my nipples puckering at your
touch? the jagged line of my shoulder blades pressing into your back when
we’re sleeping or the purse of my lips; pensive? and while this is what you
may see in your skewed analysis, i fear the word you would give to the
obsession of you leaving. the purging and the plotting. the self-hatred and
the ridicule, the cold showers and the ugliness of nudity through a broken
mirror that multiplies worst fears into reflective broken glass? and in your
words, the beauty that you see is only through your eyes. what you cannot
see is going to destroy you, so when i close mine and shake my head, you
cannot know what i am thinking. i am trying to protect you by keeping you
away. it doesn’t help that you’re persistent. and even though i’m sure i do,
please don’t tell me that you love me.
i am someone’s woman
Copyright C. 2008 Lauren Singer
April 5th, 2008 at 3:52 pm
Your acidic words are delicate and are moving whirlwind that gives a glimpse into your world as real woman and all that you experienced, experience and hopefully will you experience in better days to come. Thank you, thank you and thank you again.