appeasing gravity

i'm too bipolar to keep a consistent journal. Actually, that's an inaccurate assesment. *tripolar.

when i'm laying in bed & sleep deprived, i write letters to people on my pillow with my fingertip. i trace out the words & use a different fingertip as an eraser. it's very methodical. i've probably written a letter to you before.

The day clung to me and wouldn't let go. I could feel it in the sweat that pooled between my shoulder blades; in the way I rolled them and yawned like some great bored cat. I'd taken my shirt and skirt off; they lay in a heap on the floor of my room: periwinkle blue. The carpet was obnoxiously periwinkle blue. It had once been my favorite color simply for its name. It wasn't sky blue or something unassuming like that. Periwinkle blue sounded important. But with the years added on, all in all periwinkle blue just became redundant.
I buried my toes in tiny hills of cream-colored sheets, despite the stifling heat. I hadn't even bothered to turn a fan on, but stewed stewed stewed like a beetle on her back, no longer flailing against the sun. I had made up my mind: Let it come.
In the silence and brewery of a hot, still day like this one, it was inevitable. Something in me reared its ugly jowls and whispered to me that every conversation was as insignificant as the last. It breathed a heavy sigh of frustration into my bones for every word I had to repeat, every word that was too muffled, every word that came out garbled or simply misunderstood. It wanted mind readers or no one at all. It wanted me to exist free of questions, so I'd never have to explain myself. It made me burn from inside like a pile of powder so I always felt shut up and never worried about blankness getting outside of me.
Whatever it was, despite its benefits, I wanted to rip out its tongue.
I had just returned from the mall with Trinity. She hopped from store to store to try on tops. Her thick, dark hair swished with her energy, and I hated the way she called shirts "tops". It made me think of her as a ridiculous ice cream cone, her pale blue eyes making me shiver as she topped herself.
Trinity was undeniably beautiful. It was even beautiful that she should be so disgustingly vulgar because at least she made no attempts to conceal her crudeness. Her name, also, was beautiful. I don't think I could have tolerated her if she had a normal name.
But the horrible thing about Trinity was that she was always right about me.
"What's with you?" She didn't even look at me as she said it, but posed in front of a dressing-room mirror in a red halter-top and panties. We were both crammed in the tiny white wooden stall, so I couldn't exactly change the subject by opening the door and perusing the clothes.
"Nothing. Why?" I pretended to be very intrigued by the condition of my short fingernails.
"Don't be jealous just because I have bigger breasts than you. Some guys like small girls." She had taken off the halter-top and proceeded to try on a sheer white long-sleeved top with rhinestones.
It occurred to me then that Trinity was obviously more interested in herself than she was in me. I was simply a sideshow. And then I realized that I had known this all along. So why was I demoralizing myself, standing next to Trinity as she posed in front of that flawless floor-length mirror?
"I don't care about guys. I don't think I could make myself care at all, even if I wanted to." I rolled my eyes and tried to shrug it off matter-of-factly.
"Oh, I know you don't care about guys. You only care that every other normal girl does. So you'll feign interest at any prospective male for the title it would give you. How very low of you, Anna." For every one sentence I uttered, she had to speak two. For every two, four, and so on until she was twice me.
I couldn't say anything to that. She was always capable of making me speechless. She was one of those clever girls, one of those with an endless supply of words. In conversations, she could easily climb to the top of a vocal pecking order and maintain dominance over it. What was so dangerous about her was that she knew she was witty and there wasn't any doubt. Her power over conversation translated to a power over the emotions of anyone within earshot.
She kept me around for my ears. I wasn't especially pretty, and next to Trinity I was downright ordinary. But as long as she had a pair of ears to fill, she was superior. When it was just the two of us, I didn't mind so terribly. But as soon as there was a crowd, I didn't exist at all, unless she was saying something like:
"Hang this up, Anna. It looks like something my mother would wear. I can't imagine what I was thinking, if I was thinking at all. That whore has no taste. She'd down a glass of water if she thought it was vodka." I placed the sheer top back on its hanger and waited for Trinity to slide back into her designer blue jeans.
The way she treated her mother made me want to puke. Her mother was the sort of woman who would give someone the shirt off her back. She gave Trinity whatever the hell she wanted, even if it was plastic. She must have just felt awful about what Trinity's father had done to her when she was a girl.
The problem with genuinely nice people isn't that they are too nice, only that the world is too mean.
I sat there in my underwear on my bed, burrowing my toes into the sheets like ten hairless moles. The day kept replaying in my head and the phone didn't ring. My father was downstairs reading the newspaper; I could hear the occasional page turn like the sound of a tissue paper gift being unwrapped. I could imagine his thick fingers stained with ink.
I wanted to scream but couldn't bear to shatter the silence. It pressed so heavily on me that the sweat on my back didn't roll anymore, but sat parked there, not knowing where else to go.
Mom was gone. The brain tumor had done her in at last. I wondered what it was to have a foreign organism growing in your mind like that and how it would feel to have it consume you completely. During the last months, she couldn't even remember me. I had ceased to exist.
And all Dad could do all day was read the paper.
The silence was suffocating. I was sweating bullets. The silence loved me the way gravity did--dragging its long, airy fingers down my flesh with time, making a sagging bag of me.
I remembered that my father had a gun in the cupboard, next to his razor and aftershave. He said no one would ever suspect a gun in someplace so disappointingly ordinary.
I didn't make a thing of it. I only walked down the hallway to the master bedroom, made a right turn into his bathroom, and opened the cupboard.
The barrel tasted like aftershave. After years of lying next to such potency, how could it ever taste like itself?

"restitution's sleeping with the prostitution of our heart."

She's been staring out of the window now, every morning since the rape of her core. Has the world somehow become a satire for the drownings inside pools of open tissue? I have embellished my own personal privacy for the purpose of vanquishing all truth drained from this vain, and honestly i dont know where we all have gone. Last night i saw the most beautiful form of inspiration, and it was imminating from the plastic-black exterior contained inside of a tin box. Not only was the flavor of this immaculate sin so fulfilling, the final exit was much more liberating; even her esophagus agrees.
"Skeletons are beautiful", he told her. Physically, our vertebrates cannot possibly be anatomically sequential among those we have lied with. Political whores have already sold themselves toward the manifestation of false propaganda. I credit all of this exploitation toward our own self-infatuated evolution of self-destruction.
Sometimes dehydration has a love affair with satuaration. We have all composed our own crazy conversations and I was still amazed when this boy; who gave me a sense of profound understanding, felt the earth clawing at his flesh, unnervingly screaming about abstract medications formerly rejected by his own immune system. "Aren't you late again, Post morte insinuator"? We have all been alligned inside of our prosthetic microcosm for seconds now, waiting for your withdrawn perspective to grace us. He fell into his temporary thought, and careened into a cataclysm of vulgar space. The hallway is moving again, but its been moving for weeks.
"Are you so tall? Towering over your plastic mirror watching it fall." she asked, "You can't make it shatter, no not like your ribcage." Don't be silly.
Sometimes we all have to run away. And she will. But she misses the aftermath, the subsequential quest for wrinkled discarded clothing. much like an easter egg hunt on sunday's morning, from a five-year-old's perspective. She is five, I am not. But it was monday, in the name of perpetual insufficience, yes it's always been monday.
She has been staring out of the same window ever since her essential core's detrimental rape. Wasn't this all rather self inflicted? save our savior. oh, which one was he again? Spin, spinning, spun above the ceiling fan. This is my notice. Let it be, until we have the time to talk this over, go back to sleep under your floor. i feel for you down there.