once upon a time somewhere miles and miles under the surface of the ocean there lived an octopus named nina. nina spent most of her time alone making strange creations out of rocks and shells. she was very happy. but then on monday the shark showed up. “what’s your name?” said the shark. “nina” she replied. “do you want to be my friend” he asked. “okay, what do i have to do?” said nina. “not much” said the shark “just let me eat one of your arms”. nina had never had a friend before so she wondered if this is what you had to do to get one. she looked down at her eight arms and decided it wouldn’t be so bad to give up one. so she donated an arm to her wonderful new friend. everyday that week nina and the shark would play together. they explored caves, built castles of sand and swim really really fast. and every night the shark would be hungry and nina would give him another one of her arms to eat. on sunday after playing all day the shark told nina that he was very very hungry. “i don’t understand” she said “i’ve already given you six of my arms and now you want one more?”. the shark looked at her with a friendly smile and said “i don’t want one. this time i want them all”. “but why?” nina asked. and the shark replied “because that’s what friends are for”. when the shark finished his meal he felt very sad and lonely. he missed having someone to explore caves, build castles and swim really really fast with. he missed nina very much. so he swam away to find another friend.
If I could play back every moment to you now. Spent lovesick, and swollen on. Mornings mincing garlic on the counter by the sink. If I could hit the instant replay. Or know the every good day. Would any other catch you by surprise.
When you say something is missing now, that’s what came back to me. Normal mornings like that, and the night that I thought I’d forget where I left it. Making breakfast, put coffee on the stove, and scour every cabinet for the knife.
Don’t be shy. Don’t be kind. Somewhere snow collects and bends the boughs of pines.
But doesn’t it seem a bit wasteful to you to throw away all of the time we spent, perfecting our love in close quarters and confines. Isn’t it wasteful. And I am terrified that it doesn’t feel painful to me yet. Somewhere on top of the high-rise there’s a woman on the edge of a building at the ledge, and traffics backing up on 35. It’s alright, I will fix whatever is not for sweetness in your life. Just sit down, please, sit down, here at the table and we’ll talk. Somewhere televisions light up in the night.
I know things weren’t right. Maybe we were never cut out for the Midwest life. Maybe we’d have done much better on the coast. There are certain things I doubt we’ll ever know. I know you were getting tired of my drinking - I guess I was never cut out for the coke scene. You worried I would end up like your father. Tired of the smoke.
And somewhere the wind blows. Somewhere a storm touches down North in Hudsonville. Somewhere the coffee starts to boil on a stove. And somewhere the wind blows. Somewhere the river levels finally getting low. Somewhere I’m up past dawn, ‘til. Somewhere you’ll live here, still somewhere you’ve already gone. Somewhere a radio is playing in a living room, says the city lacks the funds to fix the bridge. Somewhere the deer overruns so they’re introducing wolves back on the ridge.
And from here in the kitchen I can hear the neighbours in the ally hanging linens, and the men collecting trash bins in the street. You’re speaking to me, but I can’t understand you. The coffee is burning and all the times that we spent. That road trip out West through desert for the rest stops, the kitsch we both collect. That winter the whole weekend we’d huddle by the stove, the cabin I had rented, the unexpected snow. That visit for Christmas. On television binges. We’ll see friends in Brooklyn, drive South to Richmond. There’s traffic on the bridge, a woman on the ledge. And everywhere, the wind. Everything is happening at once.
- Stay Happy There, La Dispute
Drink slow, to feed the nose
You know he likes to get blown
Has he got enough money to spend?
It’s going off ‘cause they’re not gonna let him in.
2 and a half, the boy’s rushing out his skin
He’s got his charm with the girls that are smoking
Takes her arm, jumps the bar, now he’s in
He doesn’t like it when the girls go
Has he got enough money to spend?
A broken half a glass has opened up his chin
He thinks he’s hard, a powdered mouth that tastes of gin
He’s just been barred for the blues he was smoking
And then he barks “It’s my car I’m sleeping in”
Tabs with unlimited 0’s, new clothes, bloody nose
Powders and walking back home
Has he got enough weed? No.
Broken phone, retching on the floor alone.
"I’m searching you mate, your jaw’s all over the place".
Can’t talk. Quick slap in the face.
Show me all your bruises. I know everybody wears them. They broadcast your pain. How you hurt. How you reacted. Did your father have a heart attack? Have you had a moment forced the whole heart to grow, or retract. Or just shrink. Does the heart shrink?
Tell me everything. Tell me everything you know. Were you told as a child how cruel the whole world can be. Did anybody ever tell you that? Tell me how your story goes. Have you ever suffered? If so, did you get better or have you never quite recovered? Did you find your lover laying in your bedroom with another and then did you let it hover over you and everything else well after the fact?
Tell me what your worst fears are. I bet they look a lot like mine. Tell me what you think about when you can’t fall asleep at night. Tell me that you’re struggling. Tell me that you’re scared. No, tell me that you’re terrified of life. Tell me that you it’s difficult not to think of death sometimes.
Tell me how you lost. Tell me how he left. Tell me how she left. Tell me how you lost everything you had. Tell me it ain’t ever coming back. Say you think of everything in fear.
Do you think if the heart keeps on shrinking one day there’ll be no heart at all?
“I wonder if you know yet that you’ll leave me. That you
are a child playing with matches and I have a paper body.
You will meet a girl with a softer voice and stronger arms and she
will not have violent secrets or an affection for red wine or eyes
that never stay dry. You will fall into her bed and I’ll go back
to spending Friday nights with boys who never learn my last name.
I have chased off every fool who has tried to sleep beside me
You think it’s romantic to fuck the girl who writes poems about you.
You think I’ll understand your sadness because I live inside my own.
But I will show up at your door at 2 am, wild-eyed and sleepless.
and try and find some semblance of peace in your breastbone
and you will not let me in. You will tell me to go home.”
— Clementine von Radics
I sit home and drink alone and hope the bottle speaks like you, like us. like me
(February stationary from You on the wall)
i’m sorry, followers.
my dad got diagnosed with cancer and then my fiancé left me. and then i ran away to florida to watch the sunsets. and i just couldn’t write anymore. i couldn’t write about it.
and now i’m back and i’ve moved to manchester and i’m studying for a degree and i’m running away to florida again at christmas. but my thoughts from the last 10 months are all written down in these weird little stumbling faltering tumblr drafts, 128 of them, and on notes in my phone, and i don’t know whether i want the world to know what i’m feeling anymore. or what i felt.
but i’m getting there. i’m almost happy. and when i’m done and finished getting happy i think i can write.