(11.05)She was careless with her hips.(11.05) by ~maimtorturekill
She left them thoughtlessly thrown like old jackets across the arm rests of chairs and littered them over worn sheets in dark rooms, hung them distractedly in the grip of vile men smelling of whiskey and smoke.
Like all powerful things in the hands of children, she did not know how to wield them. She did not quite grasp the killing force in the weapon of her birthright.
today (day four)the weather here is beautiful today. summer is gone, but the trees have not yet begun to turn, and the bees are still here, swarms of them soft and fat and yellow with pollen from the bittersweet blooms along the roadside, and everything smells so sweet.today (day four) by ~maimtorturekill
the sky is terribly bright, nearly painfully so, as it always is for me, but the breeze blowing in from off the sea is just chill enough to remind me why i tolerate the light. everything is so spectacularly alive. the warmth of the sun is like a kiss.
i had a dream about my mother last night. nothing deeply philosophical - i don’t expect that there was much meaning in it at all, really, except perhaps to serve as a reminder that, as strange as some days seem without her, still, even after fifteen years, there are pieces of me, those parts that are only purely scientific in their nature, bits of brain holding memories like a brand inside my head, that can still smell her perfume besi
(5.36)He always tasted like smoke.(5.36) by ~maimtorturekill
Not just cigarette smoke or pot smoke or the clove cigarettes he liked when he'd been drinking for a few hours, not the sort of smoke you'd expect a person to smell like. A cigarette smoker will always smell like cigarettes and a pot smoker will always smell like a joint and even if you only smoke four cloves a week the stink of spice will stick to you like tar until you've showered four times and gone two weeks without lighting one, and when you kiss any of these people, you know before your lips even touch that they're going to taste like them, too. It's like a promise; you know that when he's finished with you your taste behind his lips will not haunt him for long. You know that your breath will not stain his teeth like nicotine. He will smoke you out. Smoke is not a stealthy criminal.
Smoke is a terrible liar.
I always figured that the Devil would wear the reek of brimstone around his shoulders like a warm cloak or a brace of hunted rabbits, just slung
happy birthday, big brother.
it's been two years since he left us, or was stolen from us, or however we might look at it. two years and i still find myself stopping in the hallway at two in the morning when i hear the door at the end of the hall crack open, listening for the stumbling shuffle of his still-sleeping walk to the bathroom, or the crash of his keyboard and whatever expletive he was using to berate his failed game, or his steps above my head in the kitchen, the crack of his coke can opening, the sudden snapping bark of his laughter.
two years this house has been less his presence, and i still feel that tugging denial at the back of my throat when i look up to the shelf in the livingroom and realize that his yellowed handprint in plaster and a box with the ashes of everything he was are all that really remain of him, here, or the boxes of comics that have been sitting in the closet of my bedroom downstairs for eight years or the alarm on his watch that still goes off every day, the alarm he set himself so he could look at his coworkers at shaws and say 'fuckit, i'm outta here', and the hammer on the wall and all of his ridiculous action figures, the WOW pieces he spent so much time and effort on, every little detail precise and perfect and pristine…
coming home to this house was jarring, just that in itself, strange in ways i still cannot fully articulate.
but, he was here when i left. we hugged and said our i love yous and 'see you soon's, and he went to his room and went to sleep.
when i came back to visit we greeted each other and said our hellos, and when i left again, the same, 'goodbye', 'i love you', 'see you soon'. he was so anchored here, so permanently present, so immovably, entirely here, and when he died and i came back to help with everything, still, his things all where he left them, his smell still on the walls, the wound of his absence not yet fully opened and certainly nowhere near to being healed,
this house is jen now. this place is jen. she's become everything he was and everywhere that he was, and i dont know that i've really sat and thought about it, not really, or appreciated the space that follows at our heels wherever we goes that was his when he was with us.
i've been here before.
the birthdays, the holidays, all of those occasions we celebrate for the sake of other people, the hollow silence and that sense of dragging obligation after they've gone and the days themselves seem broken and spiteful and meaningless, just a quietly eviscerating 'fuck you' from the universe, a reminder that we can keep nothing that we really want, not really. that the things, the people, that we love, are impermanent, removable.
it's ninety-something degress.
the sky is that taunting, hatefully clear blue of real ocean summer, and we're all very still. everything is still, except for the fans blowing their warm air, and child fidgeting with her warm clothes, the curtains blowing in the warm breeze.
we're all just here, existing, waiting for the storm to come and snap this heat like a wretched spine.
happy birthday, big brother.
i hope it's cooler where you are.