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  • 8/17/2019 McGregorian Chant

    1/38

    MCGREGORIAN CHANT

    grace tallmadge

    1

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    see, I’m not the type to call you up drunk

    but I’ve got some lies to tell.

    - Catfish and the Bottlemen, “Homesick”

    2

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    ☲ Contents☲

    i. to the mcgregors

    vladivar 5

    west sands love medley 9

    ii. and those like us

    impromptu therapy session #26 12

    sobriety: another conversation 15

    iii. damn few

    i don’t have a tinder but even if i did i probably wouldn’t match with you

    anyways 21

    int. stairwell, 3 a.m. 26

    e9 28

    iv. and they’re all dead

    hey 32

    antica 35

    3

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    i. 

    ☲☲☲

    to the mcgregors

    4

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    Vladivar

    I.

    one shot of vodkaand i’m watching the daisies

    i picked by the shore

    wilt in my hands.

    one shot of vodka

    and i’m trying to wash yesterday’s tears off my face

    while not waking up my roommate

    hands outstretched and eyes open

    feeling for it –

    i guess this would be a lot easier if i knewwhat i was looking for.

    II.

    two shots of vodka

    and he says, “trust me.”

    i say,

    “make me holy,”

    so we take our hands and we build ourselves churches,

    we take our hands and we build ourselves churches and we burn them down again.two shots of vodka and he says,

    “tell me a bedtime story.”

     paris is burning,

    the harbor is burning,

    and those churches we built,

    those are burning too.

     you did this to me,

    i say.

    we did this to each other.

    he says,

    “tell me a secret.”

    a secret:

    in the real story, i am the harbor.

    i am burning alive in your bed.

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    a secret:

    i don’t trust you.

    III.

    three shots of vodka

    and my fingers are twisted in his hairand the words he murmurs into my lap sound like prayers

    so long as i can’t hear them.

    we are dizzy and full of light

    full of light and full of air

    and all these tiny precious things.

    there are monsters in my closet,

    the things i need to say,

    so i lock them in my ribcage –

    save it for a rainy day, i tell myselfas our feet tangle in the sheets –

    you don’t need his blessing.

     bottle it up.

    three shots of vodka

    and my biggest fear is spilling onto your floor

    all the memories i’ve had since we met:

    you, on the couch.

    me, in your collarbone.

    us, dancing.unspool my mind and tell me how to forget this,

    the smell of your clothes

    and the way you open your mouth to laugh

     but stay silent.

    unspool my mind, touch my neck,

     bury my skin in your skin

    and leave us to rot in a jar.

    something like desire.

    the snow, melting.

     bottle it up.

    IV.

    four shots of vodka

    and we’re stumbling down the street

    with vomit in his mouth and blood on my hands

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    and we’re laughing,

    god, we’re laughing and

    those feeble fingertips of his reach out to touch my hand,

    he asks me to make the room stop spinning

    so i kiss the tip of his noseand whisper,here.

    if you’d just look, i’m here.

    i’m here.

    four shots of vodka

    and we’re stumbling up to his room

    with bruises on his thighs and questions on my tongue;

    questions that don’t have an answer like

    “why didn’t you answer my call

    when I was lost outside at 2 a.m.”

    “why do you drink so much”

    “why didn’t you tell me where you were last night”

    why the fuck do you drink so much

    so i kiss the top of his forehead

    and whisper,i am not the agent

    of my own happiness.

    four shots of vodka

    and he keeps his hand in the back pocket of my jeans

    the way we keep ourselves to each other,

    the way we haven’t told our friends about us and

    the way we keep the moment here,

    these graceless remains,

    these sepulchral bones,

    the milky way glistening at the bottom of your drink.

    when all else fails,

    we look for a way to run;

    so i kiss his jaw and whisper,

    we are not as chosen as we thought we were.

    five, six, seven shots of vodka

    and he won’t remember any of this in the morning

     but i kiss him anyway.

    (this would be a lot easier if we knew what we were looking for.)

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    i kiss him anyway.

    8

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    West Sands Love Medley

    hey, you wanna go get high on the beach with me?

    think about shifting tides, the padding of our feet

    against ancient stone,

    the puddles holding onto

    our reflections

    and the streetlights.

    yeah. we should just go and get high.

    we could let the comets rain down on us

    leaving our bodies

     broken

    and in starry poolsi could press my lipstick to your cheek

    like it's pressed to the rolling paper

    and we could get our hands dirty

    with saltwater

    and gentleness.

    come on,

    let's sing the celestial bodies electric,

    let's ask the waves to dance;we don't even have to do it nicely.

    let's make a home for ourselves

    in the fennel

    and the foxglove

    and forget everything that the war ever taught us:

    that the blood coursing through our veins

    looked better

    spilled on the floor,

    that the curses dropping from our mouthswere anything other

    than rotten teeth.

    look at me, something frightening.

    look at me, something so soft and breakable

    it's a wonder i'm still here at all.

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     but iam here --

    here, where everything is quiet and nothing is sacred,

    here, where i am aching like you are aching

    and we know nothingwill ever be like this again --

    here, let's fall in love with strangers,

    with the sky,

    with each other.

    let's pretend our naked hopes will be enough

    to get us through til morning.

    here, i wanna get high

    and i wanna forgive myself

    and i wanna do it all

    with you.

    here, let's take another drag

    for all we have lost;

    we don't even have to go that far up the coast, you know,

     just someplace dark,

     just someplace where we might slice ourselves open on the rocks,

     just someplace where our shoulders can be touching

    and everything around us is whispering

    now;

    now;

    now;

    and we breathe out smoke and stardust.

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    ii. 

    ☲☲☲

    and those like us

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    Impromptu Therapy Session #26

    he tells me that when he was younger, he used to punch through doors

    when he got angry.

    he's smiling as he says it,

    leaning back in his rolling chair,

    and his eyes are that kind of shining

    you only get when you're so high

    that the stars start to come in through your window

    and settle on your ceiling

    and i'm sitting on his bed

    and my hands are gripping the sheets

    and i'm seeing something

    start to take shape that i didn't before,

    something strange and sharp

    and cutting into me

    and for a moment i can feel myself

     bleeding right through the mattress

    and he looksso happy, the only kind of happy you can look

    when you are not happy,

    when you are so sad

    that everything in your chest

    is starting to freeze over

    and i want to tell him, you know,

    that i used to sit on my roof

    and light matches

    and watch them burn out

    and pretend that i was smoldering too

    that i still drink gin in the showerthat sometimes i have to sit on my hands to stop them from shaking

    that every time i think about kissing him,

    i also think about all the ways that i could shatter

    if i ever fall.

    i want to tell him

    that before i am anything else,

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    i am always

    a mistake.

    and i bet you're tired of this, tired of

    hearing me talk about how i'm too fucked upto love or listen

    or exist as anything other than

    something like the orange juice spilled onto your counter,

    the sink overflowing in your bathroom,

    the glass bottles smashed on the sidewalk outside your door,

    something fragile and hopeless and out of place.

    i bet you're tired of the story

    where i'm running desperate through the airport,

    the story where i'm waiting patient in the garden,

    the story where i have to choose between staying alive

    and falling in love

    and i always end up dead at the end.

    i know you're tired of me claiming i have no choice

    when i'm the one who's been holding the knife.

     believe me, i am too.

    he tells me that when he was younger, he used to punch through doors

    and he doesn't know this

     but right now

    he's punching through me;

    he doesn't know that i can only accept gentleness if it feels like violence,

    that the only time kindness can touch me

    is when it's slitting my throat.

    he doesn't know this,

     but i do.

    he tells me he used to punch through doorsand for the first time since i've known him

    the marijuana smoke on his clothes

    doesn't smell like giddiness,

     but something like regret.

    something like oblivion.

    something like what drowning people feel

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    the moment they open their lungs to the water

    and give in.

    he tells me that he used to punch through doors

    and i don't realize how long i've been staring at himuntil he finally looks away.

    he tells me that he used to punch through doors

    and i have never felt so close.

    14

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    Sobriety: Another Conversation

    (Lights come up. GIRL and BOY stand with their backs to each other.)

    BOY: i had a dream last night. all my friends were there, they were with me, but we

    were alone, and we were lying in a field, and we were looking at the stars, and they all

    had the names of people we knew, and we were remembering

    GIRL: this is how the story always starts

    BOY: we were getting high, we were laughing, we were sharing each other’s jackets and

    we weren’t feeling anything

    GIRL: boy meets girl

    BOY: or we were feeling everything, feeling it all, we werecreating the feeling, it was a

    long time ago

    GIRL: girl meets boy back

    BOY: but i can still feel the rain on the grass

    GIRL: and they begin to destroy each other from the inside out.

    Pause.

    BOY: hey

    GIRL: it’s late

    BOY: we’ve been arguing again

    GIRL: you’re alone

    BOY: do you remember why we’re mad at each other

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    GIRL: why did you come here

    BOY: because i’m so angry at you

    GIRL: i don’t understand

    BOY: it’s not anything personal

    GIRL: you can’t hate me

    BOY: it’s just that every time i look at you

    GIRL: this isn’t how it works

    BOY: it’s just that i really can’t stand you

    GIRL: you don’t get to do this

    BOY: it’s just that i don’t want to ever see you again

    GIRL: you don’t get to come here and say

    BOY: it’s alright

    GIRL: how much you hate me when

    BOY: you can’t possibly hate me more than i hate myself

    GIRL: i don’t hate you

    BOY: you can walk away from this

    GIRL: this whole time

    BOY: you can be absolved

    GIRL: i’ve just been trying

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    BOY: you can find someone else

    GIRL: this whole time, i’ve been trying to tell you that

    BOY: you should go

    GIRL: you need to learn to show people

    BOY: i mean it

    GIRL: what you’re feeling

    BOY: please

    GIRL: or you might always be alone

    BOY: i said, i mean it

    GIRL: but i don’t believe you.

    BOY: you want emotion?

    GIRL: why did you come here

    BOY: here are some emotions that i don’t share

    GIRL: since when have you ever thought about what i want

    BOY: i think we are hurtling towards oblivion

    GIRL: i just wanted you to be alright

    BOY: i think there are life forms on other planets that will render us pointless

    GIRL: i think that’s the entire point

    BOY: i wonder if all my friends back home are still in that field, looking at the stars

    GIRL: maybe i could give you something for the pain

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    BOY: or if they all got up and left

    GIRL: some paracetamol

    BOY: or fell in love

    GIRL: or some aspirin

    BOY: or if they’re all forgetting

    GIRL: let me check in my bag

    BOY: sometimes i try and think about what i am forgetting

    GIRL: i almost always carry some, i need it for my head

    BOY: forgetting what it’s like to be in control

    GIRL: to stop all the crying

    BOY: to have somewhere to go once it’s all over

    GIRL: i haven’t cried in five months

    BOY: to touch someone

    GIRL: not since i first let you touch me

    BOY: and have them stay with you

    GIRL: i’m sorry

    BOY: i’m not myself, i don’t think

    GIRL: i can’t give you anything, right now

    BOY: side note, what are emotions?

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    GIRL: that night, i should have stayed with you

    BOY: i think you should leave

    GIRL: you’re strange

    BOY: you’re fucked up

    GIRL: i know

    BOY: i know.

    GIRL: are you alright

    BOY: have you ever really loved something, and had it love you back?

    GIRL: i loved you.

    BOY: i don’t think any of us ever really loved each other

    GIRL: please, all i wanted was for you to be alright

    BOY: we just loved looking at the stars.

    GIRL: you want emotion?

    BOY: no. not from you.

    GIRL: then why did you come here?

    BOY: i had a dream last night.

    (Lights go down.)

    19

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    iii. 

    ☲☲☲

    damn few

    20

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    I Don’t Have a Tinder But Even if I Did I Probably Wouldn’t

    Match With You Anyways

    (swipe left)remember that week i wasn’t sober?

    there was a time when you asked if i wanted to grab lunch

    and my hands shook for an hour afterwards.

    i’m sorry i didn’t speak to you until i was swimming

    under two bottles of wine,

    i just couldn’t bring myself to look at you

    and that was the easiest way for me to go blind.

    and you know, i’m sorry i let your fever swallow me;

    i’m sorry i left you alone on the couch that nightand i’m sorry i let your friend put his hands up my skirt.

    i’m sorry about the ashes that sometimes fill my throat.

    mostly, i’m sorry that you were everything i needed.

    i’m sorry that i just didn’t need it right then.

    (swipe right)

    you do this thing

    where you start with your lips at my collarboneand leave a trail of smoldering stars

    all the way up to my temple.

    we flicker in and out of consciousness

    like cigarettes in the dark

    and our bodies spread

    and melt to form a galaxy

    that is bigger than the room,

    that is pressing against the walls

    and leaving us without a breath

    and all this space between us

    gets lost

    in hips, in wrists,

    in the bruises on my knees

    and the taste of beer on your tongue.

    “no” is not enough, never enough;

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    not enough to make you stop putting your hands around my neck,

    not enough to make me stop wanting you.

    those mornings after,

    i split my knuckles open on the concrete

    while you nurse your hangoverand ask me if i remember where you put your headphones.

    it’s a stupid question.

    of course i do.

    (swipe left)

    i text you back way too fast

    for someone who’s up at 4:39 a.m.

     both of us ask, but neither of us want

    to admit where we’ve been –

    i know you’ve probably been getting high

    on the beach by yourself

    and you know that i’ve probably been kneeling on linoleum

    holding back someone’s hair as they spill

    everything they’ve smoked and drunk and said

    that night out from their feeble mouths.

    someone once asked me if i was in love with you

    and i laughed so hard

    i could taste blood,

     but you know better than anyone

    that i would beat down your door

    with my soft, bare fists

    if it meant you’d be okay.

    god, i just want everyone to be okay.

    isn’t that what you’re supposed to want?

    isn’t that enough?

    (swipe right)

    i come downstairs and into your room sometimes

     just to watch you eat cereal

    and play video games,

     just so that you’re not alone.

    i pretend not to notice the condom wrappers

    22

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    and you pretend not to notice my scars

    and we fight a lot about stupid things

    and there have been so many times i’ve thought

    about throwing a rock

    or myselfthrough your window –

     but then i also think about the times

    i used to sit in my car

    in a gas station parking lot

    and light matches and blow them out and just cry

    and i also think about how

    your parents got divorced when you were little

    and how it’s probably been a long time

    since someone told you that you were important

    so i just clink my bottle against yours

    instead.

    your roommate says that ten in the morning

    is too early for beer,

    that we’re probably starting to become alcoholics.

    we grin, and then collapse into silence.

    the bottleneck knocks against my teeth.

    your avatar bleeds out on the computer screen.

    (swipe right)

    one night, you told me that we’d probably be best friends

    if you weren’t such a dick all the time.

    i rolled my eyes, led you upstairs by the arm.

    that’s the thing, i wanted to tell you.

    you don’t have to be such a dick all the time.

    you don’t have to curl away from me

    like you’re burning at the touch of my skin.the daylight is still just daylight

    and we are both still here.

    (swipe left)

    i think meeting you

    was the strangest thing

    23

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    that’s happened to me this whole semester:

    i asked you about home and you told me

    that Kurt Cobain shot himself

    twenty minutes from where you used to live.

    i should have known that we’d be friends

    the moment you tried to use suicide as a pickup line,

     but i wasn’t expecting it.

    if i’m being honest: i wasn’t expecting you.

    (swipe right)

    you wrapped me in your arms

    on a blue october morning

    and i could suddenly feel

    that we were all as small as insects

    and we were trapped in the moment

    like it was amber.

    i whispered this to you

    as we watched our friends cross the floor in front of us

    on the way to breakfast, on the way to class,

    on the way back home from a one night stand;

    everything in motion

     but us.

    you held me so close to you

    i thought i might break apart.

    for a second, we were larger

    than these fragile bones.

    (swipe left)

    remember that week i wasn’t sober?

    yeah, i should’ve gone to lunch with you, but you,

    you should’ve stayed.you should have taken me by the shoulders

    and sat me down on your floor

    and just stayed there with me,

     just for a little while.

    you should have stretched out the skin of your arms

    24

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    and showed me all your pain,

    you should have answered your phone

    you should have taken my hand

    you should have told me it would be all right

    and you should have stayed.you should have stayed.

    Kurt Cobain killed himself

    three years before we were born.

    the first night you kissed me, i swear

    i could hear the gunshot

    echo.

    25

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    INT. Stairwell, 3 a.m.

    [GIRL and BOY are standing on the landing of a staircase. Everything is washed in fluorescent

    light and there are shadows on both their faces. They are having an argument that the audiencecannot hear; BOY keeps gesturing angrily to something out of frame, or something not there, and

    GIRL keeps running her hands through her hair. Her makeup is smeared across her face. She

    looks like the aftermath of a summer storm.]

    [GIRL’s shirt is almost falling off her; most of her bra is visible, but she does not seem to care.

    GIRL feels naked but also powerful but also vulnerable but also furious. Deep and empty like a

    lake but also violent like a sandstorm. An exposed nerve. A glistening blade. A caterpillar

    crawling out of its own skin.]

    [There is a gun in her back pocket and a knife in her shoe.]

    [It is not easy being a GIRL.]

    [Finally, BOY shakes his head, and starts to descend the staircase, leaving her and her casualtiesbehind. He is ending just as she is beginning. He is swallowing the key and she is choking it back

    up into an open fist. Silently, determinedly, GIRL follows him. Her fingers are curled and

    clenched.]

    [This is how it is. BOY is always walking away and GIRL is always following. It’s not always

    with each other, and it’s not always painful, but it always ends like this.]

    GIRL:[screaming for his attention but nearly silent]Hey.

    [BOY stops on next landing, turns to face her. GIRL catches up with him, shedding her shirt like

    skin along the way. They stand, looking directly into the other’s eyes. A challenge. A bated

    breath. A moment of something like fear.]

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    BOY: I think I hate you.

    [Beat]

    GIRL: Okay.

    [GIRL pulls the gun from the back pocket of her jeans and holds it out to BOY, grip-first. BOY

    looks down at it like he doesn’t understand, so GIRL shoves it into his cold, white hands. BOY

    holds it and they both remember the way he once heldher. He holds it and he sees himself

    holding it and he sees just how tenderly death fits in his palm. He holds it and he becomes it. Heholds it and he does not want to let go.]

    [GIRL takes BOY’s hands in hers like she would a lover’s and then pulls them toward her, pulls

    him close so that the barrel presses against her bare sternum. GIRL and BOY do not break eye

    contact. GIRL curls BOY’s finger against the trigger.]

    [They stand there, BOY and GIRL, doubt and devotion, lust and loathing and a long, last breath.

     He can feel her heart beat against the metal of the weapon. She can feel the weight of everything

    they have ever done and will ever do to each other resting on her fragile shoulders, and she closes

    her eyes.]

    [BOY does not put a bullet in her chest. He puts his tongue in her mouth instead.]

    [GIRL wraps herself around his frame and tries to forget everything else.]

    [She can’t help but wish that he had pulled the trigger.]

    27

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    E9

    i don’t even wait for an answer after knocking anymore. in all honesty, i half-expect him

    to be asleep – instead he’s awake and alone and barefoot and cross-legged on his bedand knocking back a beer. it makes me smile, even though he rarely ever smiles back.

    “oh. it’s you.”

    the door swings shut behind me. “hey.”

    “hey, you.” he cracks the seal on another bottle with his teeth. “want a beer?”

    once, i walked into the ocean with my clothes on and then slept on his floor next to a

    half-empty bottle of vodka. when i think about why i did it, all i can recall is that i wastired. tired of being held and emptied and hollowed. tired of people scraping out my

    insides until there’s nothing left. tired of wanting to drown. tired of being too good of a

    swimmer to bring myself to do it. i woke up the next morning with a blanket and a

    headache and the only thing he asked me was if i wanted any orange juice.

    i’m remembering all this as i settle down on his bed and watch him plod over to his

    windowsill, grab another bottle from the twelve-pack he’s perched there. i’m trying to

    think of a morbid joke to tell and break the silence when suddenly he slams it againsthis desk and it’s like i can feel the impact in my chest, crunching against my sternum,

    spikes of pain thundering down every limb. the cap pops off, and immediately foam

    starts spilling all over his shirt and his hands, and he starts licking his fingers and i can

    see tongue meeting skin and i have to turn away.

    sometimes, we do this thing where we go together and find a warm, dark room and just

    lie in it, just for an hour or two. we talk aboutstar wars and listen to songs about

    loneliness. we get tangled in each other’s bones and the smell of each other’s hair. hisfingers find my neck, stay there until i’m pushing him away, until i start to shake, until i

    can’t breathe. then his lips. an apology, a plea for something more than just wanting,

    more than just skin. open palms. arched spine. before morning, one of us always leaves.

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    he hands me the beer and i still can’t find something clever to say so instead i just say,

    “thanks.”

    “yeah.”

    i put my mouth to the glass and i can feel him sit down so that our backs are to eachother but we’re also leaning against each other’s bodies and i can’t shake the sense that i

    could probably find my way around this room with my eyes closed and my wrists tied if

    i had to. something about muscle memory. the silence is making my head spin but all i

    can manage to think about is how the beer is kind of warm but his body is so cold and

    how there will never be a way to explain to him how much this is Fucking Me Up, even

    though i’ll probably try anyways.

    the bed we’re sitting on right now is the same bed we shared that night our friend

    wouldn’t stop throwing up and one of us had to keep going to the washroom across the

    hall to check on him. he was wearing the same white t shirt, and i was wearing the same

    green bra, and we were so scared we didn’t speak for an hour, but i eventually fell

    asleep with his fingers laced with mine and the inkling that even if this was the fallout,

    even if we never saw each other again, everything would be all right.

     behind me, i hear him take another swig of beer and so i let myself go, let gravity take

    hold for one frightened moment

    and then i’m resting on his shoulder

    and it’s like a moon falling into orbit.

    my head fits into the hollow of your collarbone like your hips fit my ribs, like this moment fits

    into our story.

    the story where we’re not afraid to stay, the story where i keep coming down to your room becauseit’s the closest thing to a home i’ve found in this sea-ruined cobblestone city. the story where we’re

     just drunk enough to say all the things we mean, but sober enough to remember it come daylight.

    the story where i fight you off. the story where i kiss you back.

    the story where we’re not unhappy

    and we’re not alone

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     for our entire lives.

    i think you should be the one to tell it.

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    iv. 

    ☲☲☲

    and they’re all dead

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    Hey

    hey, i whisper.

    hey, you breathe.

    there is a silence the size of an ocean, tipped back and pouring

    down my throat,

    hair on the back of my arms rising, clench the bones of my jaws

    you see, my parents found my collection

    of ash and bottles

    and now i’m hiding in a starbucks and my hands are shaking

    and i’m not crying, i’m not gonna cry in public

     but i miss you and i miss our friends

    and i miss the selfish things,

    the awkward kisses and the blurry-eyed dreams and the carnival lights

    spinning around

    and around

    and around --

    i stop speaking because the tears are waiting in my mouth

    and you are quiet, so quieti can hear the blood rushing in both our ears,

    flooding my brain,

    so deep in my veins you could drown in it --

    hey, you murmur.

    hey, i say back.

    the words lie restless in our lungs

    like those fish without eyes

    swimming at the bottom of some black lakeso i tell him, there are bruises on my knuckles

    they look like they were painted there

     but i don’t remember throwing a punch

    and he tries to be funny, maybe it’s like fight club, maybe there’s a side of you

    even you don’t know about;

    i don’t reply, or maybe it’s you. maybe it’s you

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    who doesn’t know

    the first fucking thing about me.

    this is the worst part: the waiting, the space between our secrets,

    my mouth, your fingers, our past and the thingswhich are happening now --

    the things between us that have always been happening

    and i don’t say, there are also bruises on my heart

    from it throwing itself against my ribcage, screaming

    obscenities likei need you ineedyou ineedyouineedyouNOW

    this is the worst part: forgetting you ever loved me.

    -- hey, what’s your greatest fear? (clutching the phone to my cheek,

     bones aching like the end of the world, every facet of me

     beating,whywhywhy)

    i don’t say, telling you the wrong thing.

    -- hey, you still up? (the bottom

    of a swimming pool)

    (a cup full of bourbon)

    (train tracks and rooftops and every moment feeling

    like my head against the pavement)

    i don’t say, still, always.

    -- hey, truth or dare?

    (everything i know about you is a lie,

    swallowing words like broken glass)

    i don’t say, truth:

    i’m still waiting for my bravery to grow back in where you pulled it out of me.

    (bleeding bleeding bleeding for fuck’s sake let mebleed)

    i don’t say, dare.

    i dare you to stand outside my door

    in the dew and the grass and the dark and beg.

    i dare you to drop your fist, look me in the face and confess. i dare you

    to pick yourself up off the cowardly floorand understand not the weight of forgiveness,

     but the bright blessed absence of it.

    i dare you to stare into the abyss until you fall into it,

    until you fall in love with it,

    until something stares back.

    i dare you to bend. i dare you to break. i dare you to begin

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     begin

    hey, i breathe.

    hey, you whisper.hey, this is our real, our everything,

    our blue veins splintering under the light.

    hey: this kind of love makes me human. it does not make me weak.

    hey, okay, i guess i’ll keep saying it

    until you believe it. i’ll keep shouting it at the stars

    til someone finally understands,

    someone without your name or mine or anyone’s we know --

    hey. i think we should start this conversation over.

    another ocean.

    there are things he doesn’t say,

    can’t know,

     but that doesn’t mean they aren’t there. i know that now.

    hey, i’m leaving for scotland in a few months

    and i don’t know if i’ll ever be back

     but i know that no one is going to stop me,

    not even you.

    i don’t feel those things anymore --

    all those things i never said, well,

    i take them back,

    every tender, bitter syllable.

    i miss you now but i won’t miss this.

    of all the words i ever wanted to say to you, here,

    these are the ones i’m choosing.

    there. okay.

    hey.

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    Antica

    I.

    one shot of sambucaand i’m watching the pictures i took in the city

    fade in his eyes.

    one shot of sambuca

    and i’m trying to shake the memory of longing out of my mouth

    out of my hair

    out from under

    my ragged fingernails –

    this would be a lot easier if i knew

    what i wanted.

    II.

    two shots of sambuca

    and he says, “it’s been six months since i’ve kissed anyone sober.

    is that fucked up?” he asks,

    “is that just the way we live now?”

    i say nothing.

    i take his hand instead.

    the way we live now:

    helpless

    and hopeless

    and heartless.

    the way we live now,

    i say,

    is doing whatever it takes

    to not die.

    he says,

    “you’re so sad.

    you’re so sad and so beautiful.you are the only person who knows me.

    you are the only thing

    that can make me feel alive.”

    the way we live now:

    it’s been six months since i’ve even beensober.

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    the way i live now:

    it’s been six months

    and i don’t feel a thing.

    III.three shots of sambuca

    and his fingers are twisted in my shirt

    and his mouth is pressed against my shoulder

    and we are taking everything that ever mattered to us

    and we are sending it out to sea.

    our pockets are full of stones,

    full of stones

    and full of dread

    and all these heavy things,

    we are destined to drown –

    in our misery,

    in these bottles,

    in each other.

    there’s something crawling under my skin,

    the words i’m too drunk to say,

    so i just take a long breath

    and unclasp my bra instead.

    hold it in.

    three shots of sambuca

    and the only thing i want

    is to keep this right here,

    these moments where we were lonely

    and we were together

    and it was never a mistake:

    you, in the middle of the street.

    me, asleep on your floor.

    us, and then the stars.

    lean into meand show me what you really know about truth,

    your weight on my hips

    and the way you wrap your fingers around my throat

     but it never leaves a bruise;

    lean into me,

    fill my lungs with water

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    and give me a choice

     between love

    and all the mercy that has to come after.

    the moon, waiting.

    hold it in.

    IV.

    four shots of sambuca

    and we’re stumbling down the hall

    with scratches on his chest and mascara on my face

    and i’m trying,

    god, i’m trying and

    he’s pulling me towards him by the wrists

    and he asks me to make him feel something, anything,

    so i kiss his neck and whisper, please.

     please, you’re okay. it’ll be okay.

     please be okay.

    four shots of sambuca

    and we’re stumbling down the stairs

    with clouds in his head and fears in my stomach,

    fears that don’t have any reason like

    “i’m afraid of the things you won’t tell me”

    “i’m afraid we’ll all end up as strangers”

    “i’m afraid we will be unhappy for our entire lives”

    i am so afraid of ending up a stranger

    so i kiss his fingertips

    and whisper,i am incapable of loving without becoming a weapon

    without becoming a tragedy

    without becoming someone else entirely.

    four shots of sambuca

    and he looks at me

    the way i look at something that’s about to die,

    the way we are letting it all unravel before it was ever even completethe way we’re looking up at the sky

    as it looks down on us:

    these young ruins,

    these bloody hearts,

    these sad, strange kids

    searching for meaning in each other’s mouths

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    and always coming up empty.

    i just kiss his cheek and whisper,

     you are not as lost as you think you are.

    five, six, seven shots of sambucaand neither of us is going to remember this in the morning

     but i kiss him anyway.

    (this would be a lot easier if we knew what we wanted.)

    i kiss him anyway.