A Broken Crow

the other night. i miss that so much, you have no idea.
that was honest. that was nostalgia. that was me and a cigarette and a sidewalk to stare at while i fumble over words that i thought about too much on the way over.

we're so fun. i'm glad we always remember that.

i had to work at the killam today for an hour during the lunch rush. i was very much out of my element. i wished bianca would be working because then we could laugh about things that make no sense to anyone else and move too slow and piss off the toronto girls with their dal sweats and their botox and their $300 sunglasses. fuck.
(did i mention that i've been drinking and i miss everyone?)

i've been drinking.
and i miss everyone.
(sometimes i need to be hugged like i'm seventeen.)

it's come to this so slowly. i almost didn't notice.
the fact that i no longer exist.
(have i not been autonomous enough? is this my own fault?)
in the end, the cancer eats everything.
including me.

so be thankful that you're in love
be thankful that you're in pieces
'cause, baby, it's a begger being bitten by this bug
after all you're all young
you're all lethal and young

i do believe i was just stood up.
what a fucking wench. (i had tea and snacks and everything too. i gave them to the cute boy on the other couch just cause he was there...and cute.)

every now and then this strange feeling washes over me.
i go invisible and i watch all this mad shit go down around me.
i'm just out of reach.
but it's all still happening - slower, now that i can see.
sometimes i try to scream out and stop things.
sometimes i don't bother and just count the casualties as they roll in.

one.
two.
three.

because i'm not really here.
and no one is really listening.

( i called you twice from work today. how the fuck am i going to leave for a weekend?)

put the pen to the paper and it marks like cutting through skin.

all those days-years-hurts ago, someone told me it would be better. and worth it. all of it. fresh and unmarred and ready for my dirty thumbprint in the corner. but when this is over, it's never really over. those lines will always be there, for me to read between. your smile is still your smile, only different.

lately i've been thinking. mulling over it in my mind. lost weekends and my brain humming like a florescent light while my head lolls back and forth. limp like a doll. i live by sense and no thought. i touch the knees beside me and laugh. i kiss because skin is soft against my mouth. girls huddle together and hands clamp down on the cuff of my jeans. clammy. warm and cold at the same time. all my words are opened up and poured out like a cold drink. all of my muscles are fluid and all of my thoughts are chemical. (can i have it back, now? do you think? that simplicity?)

(because lately, just a little bit here and there and not even close to all the time, i've been thinking that we've been singled out. you and i. privy to the secrets of all things strange and terrible. i can speak a language that no one understands. i could tell a story that would wake people from their sleep, screaming.)

just put the pen to the paper and it marks like cutting through skin. and, you know, those big words actually beat the shit out of me. i'm a doll with cold glass eyes. i'm a marionette. i'm the dead strings on my guitar. i'm tired and old and everything i say sounds broken.

(but it's ok in the end, right? you'll come out the other end whole and perfect. your smile will still be your smile, only different.)

i woke up this morning with this feeling. in my veins. in my blood. everything is snap-crackle-pop and i'm rushing around like i'm being timed. or chased.
i'm all drummed fingertips and quick darts of the eye, nimble and sketchy like a jungle cat on uppers.

i'm feeling unpredictable. heads up, fuckers.

sometimes i just need it to be simple.
not packed in a bag.
not stretched between two places and three lives.
not written on a chart.
not pre-planned and listed. not piled up in the sink and corners. not pulling down on my leg and arms and eyelids. not doctors and prescriptions and long words to remember.

i want to go to the market and pick out jams.
i love you.

it's like i'm blind. eyelids like lead casings. hollowed out and burning from seeing too much pale skin. too much of your ribcage and your sunken cheeks. i stumble around and the air feels like water then fire then water. other times i can see for miles and it's all open roads and sunsets and oh-so-fucking-quaint diners that still sell rootbeer floats.

today you admitted that it annoyed you the way i leave on every light in every room. i hid beneath the blankets and you saved me from that spider in the kitchen.

i want this to hurt like a blister or a cut.
i want this to hurt like a bullet.
but it doesn't. not even close. i don't know what to do with an ache so vast, heavy and dull. grey and shifting. it snags my stomach lining and turns my mouth into a desert of chattering teeth and raw gums. that's the way it is now. me all furrowed and snagged and chattering. you all elbows and knees, sharp bones that i can count one-two-three.

In my year of working for Second Cup, I've noticed a few amusing things about their coffee names. Half of the time, I'm convinced that their marketing team either knows nothing about coffee, or jack shit about geography.

for example:

One of our most popular dark roasts is called Columbian Viennese. Think about it. Columbian Viennese. I somehow doubt that the Second Cup people collect beans from two different countries in order to make one shitty cup of coffee.

Another of our dark roasts is called El Toucan. This brings to mind an image of some spanish renegade...but much less cool. What does a big loud colorful bird have to do with my fucking coffee? Does is taste like bird? It's clearly ridiculous.

The other thing that gets me is how each coffee is described in terms of brightness, body, overtones, undertones and finish, as though I'm actually hocking a beverage as interesting and complex as fine wine, and not a low-grade paper cup of joe.

Point is, we've got a new coffee featured this month.

Get this: The Rwandan Cup of Hope. I shit you not.

Cup of Hope? And I'm expected to pimp this bullshit everyday all fucking month. Being the person I am, I simply cannot let this slide by without some mockery. Each time a customer approached my shop today, I took a deep breath, put on my most solemn face and said these words with as much feeling as I could muster:

"Do you need a cup of hope today?"
"What?"
"Hope. We're selling it by the cup. Want some?"
"I'll just have coffee."
"Too much hope already, huh? How about a cup of despair?"
"...."
"We're also featuring a robust cup of rage with a delicate chocolate finish, and a bright and perky cup of lust for the rest of the week. Have a nice day and thank-you for making Second Cup your second home." *intoxicating smile*

I think i drove away more business today than i did all summer with my music.

Surely I deserve to be fired.

i've kept you safe.
pressed between the palm of my hand and the inside of my pocket.
three scrawled words and the ash from a cigarette.
i just can't see anymore
through the fog of everything that's happened
the dark that bears down
the smoke that escapes from the corners of your mouth.
like so many ghosts.
from here, i know the colour of your eyes
the curve of your mouth
the silence that blooms between us.
i know that you're in love with my smile
but you hate the way i talk
without once opening my eyes.

i can never sleep without you beside me.
i lay quiet and still for hours, but it isn't really sleep. that kind of night where the body is dormant and the brain is murmuring threatening screaming.
i curl around balled up sheets and let my tongue search over my mouth for all the little raw spots of flesh. nervous chewing. gritting. stress i suppose.
(sometimes i can imagine you there. i press my face into your arm and breathe slowly.)

last night was just what i needed.
you and me and the bottle makes three.
tell me a story and we'll see if this fire can loosen up my tongue.
you laughed between gulps and i told you everything that pissed me off.

so angry all the time.

(but later, your apartment was dark and empty. full of everything you were in the middle of doing before they took you back. i curled up in my clothes, balled sheets pressed to my stomach. i closed my eyes and pictured the outline of your back in the dark.)

i remember when there was time.
all those long lazy days and nights that slipped over me like sheets.
someone would have a car and we'd all pile in to go nowhere in particular.
do you remember the afternoons we skipped off to go swimming?
do you remember what it felt like to go into september without each passing day screaming into your ear like a seedy little goblin?

(that one time, we stole a whole bottle of rum from the liquor cabinet and fell over on my lawn, laughing. we realized that no one knows shit about constellations and i threw dried grass into your hair.)

i miss you.

don't think. don't think. don't think about all of that.
so long ago.
(because even i'm sick of this feeling. even i'm sick of myself sometimes.)
it's time grow up. it's time to be an adult now.
welcome to a whole new world of real problems, that can't be solved with a joint or a kiss or an endless conversation or meaningless sex. (or even meaningful sex. which is scarier. much much scarier.)

(that one time, we climbed out of your window and faced the shore with stolen cigarettes. i inhaled and it hurt, while you flicked ash nonchalantly onto my sneaker. i taught you to play guitar and you dared me to pour coke over the bike next door. i inhaled and it hurt.)

i miss you.