Inscincere Melody

My stomach hurts like I’ve had too much coffee because, probably, I’ve have had too much coffee. January is a cold month, says Captain Obvious, but it’s never quiet. January’s upbeat melodies ring a bit insincere, the body aches for a silence wrapped in the back of eyelids. Silence sounds like warm sheets and mounds of pillows and the tiptoe blue of dawn through frosted windows. It must be actively stolen from January, from the guileless month of alarms and phone calls and buzzers and noise makers and of course (of course) the subtle, omnipresent warfare of domestic life, all root vegetables sizzling on the oven, car engines struggling to turn over, tires slushing a-rhythmically over moist ground, the heater and the fan, the ghosts, the faint pang of memories, pallid and fading in the cold pools of weak light.

freezing

I’m like a hothouse flower, all dried and bitter cold withered lips pale and peeling. Planted in flickering pools of cool light, I’ve grown to appreciate the frozen windows and frost covered locks. Sometimes the only way to bloom is to force it, but suspended under glass under snow it hardly seems worth the effort.

13 moons

I painted my nails dark blue and then covered them in sparkles because you know what? It’s a blue moon today… oh, yeah, and my birthday. And I hear there may be an eclipse somewhere in the world but I don’t think I can see it so I don’t especially care.

You hear that, bitches? Christmas is over, so over, and now, now it is time to drink champagne and wear obnoxious hats covered in glitter and shoot off fireworks and merry make and toasts to me, (I’m turning 25 for the second or third time).

the cool side of the pillow

I wish I could photo people from above while they are sleeping. I think it would reveal something about them, about all of us. The sheet-hoggers, the teeth-grinders, the jaw clenchers- it all comes out in our sleep. To capture the basic letters of love we write with our bodies, all the Ls and Ss and Xs and Os, the alphabets of space and blankets, of tosses and turns and dogs not quite at the foot and kids tucked under arms and socks everywhere.

condensation

I had some reason for opening this word document, some line I wanted to pick up and hold, some ripple I wanted to name, and follow. but I can’t remember it now… haven’t written anything for myself in awhile now, been storing up the words hoping to fill the damn of my academic life… but words, like water, are hard to contain; they find the cracks, leak through the barriers like so much condensation. I’ve had some damn good lines flow through my head, I try to capture a few drops, a few molecules but they fall through my fingers and I don’t bother to try and stop it…