The den of villains would hang me for this mutiny. They’d take my skull and bones and cast them into the sea. And the bourgeoisie would turn up their noses and turn down their dials and simply unplug, the deafening sound of nothingness with that final strum.
Like two reckless surgeons unwilling to see the inevitable way this will end. With both of us amputated beyond repair. But perhaps there are never any good breaks or clean cuts. And with any good swipe– it takes guts. Both to swing and to spill. But if you’re willing I’m willing– I will… leave you ruined and wanting, desperately hating me. But what an adventure. Oi. What an adventure it’ll be.
Because lying is fun. And lying next to you is funn-er.
She asked to ‘put a pin in this’, these moments of brilliant’ whiskey sparks and secrets whispered on the sharp’ edge of mountain peaks in the rain. Can they be bottled and left waiting on a shelf, in hopes of being knocked open again?
So with a wistful perhaps I suppose… we can. May my pin be the starkly shining silver’ in the middle of your chest; unable to be buried in the hurried scatter’ of a life of consequence. May my pin be anxiously run under your fingertips, in moments of uncertainty or loneliness. May my pin be the sharp prick against your skin, to remind you that these lessons hurt, but it’s okay to let someone in.
But most of all, may you remember me. Not as moments of a fleeting time gone by but as road-map to to where you could be. Where who you’re with’ could be trumped by this is it. May you remember me.
Bump it with:
My life has been going great. This month alone, I’ve accomplished a lot. I couldn’t fix my old car, so I bought a new one. I learned to drive a stick-shift in the span of half a day. I’m no longer mopeding around like some college hipster; instead I’ve skipped a step entirely on gone strait to mid-life-crisis car. Gosh, I hope that doesn’t mean I’m dying at sixty.
death of the Dragon…
…birth of the Serpent.
I published my first book online. I can actually tell people I am a published author and not just an aspiring one. Sure I’ve only sold enough copies to cover somewhere between a dinner for two at Olive Garden and half a ticket to see Book of Mormon… but people have bought my book. People have spent time out of their lives reading what I have to say.
But now that it’s done– it’s done. I used to lie awake in bed thinking about this moment. The moment I’m driving again as a published author. Now that I am in this moment, there’s an emptiness. It’s not that it isn’t satisfying, it’s that satisfaction has already worn off and I am inventing new targets for further down the line. Why am I still dating, when people way stupider and uglier than me are already married and popping out kids? I need to get into a marriage-worthy relationship. I’ve only sold my book to friends and family… I need to get strangers to read it. I need to hike more, and eat salads, and get into better shape. I need to write another book…
I don’t think I’ll ever be satisfied with what my life has given me. And I think I’m okay with that.