The Other Side of the Linoleum

Most people look at me like I'm crazy when I tell then I'm not excited about going home. Why, it's so boring there, I say, there's nothing to do! All my friends from highschool are here. Is that really the reason? Or maybe it's the fact that I hate to see my mother older than she was the last time I saw her, or the fact that I hate to see my father's waistline has expanded, leading him by the belt-loop into the hands of the heart attack waiting around the corner? Damn them! Damn them both! Damn my own selfishness. Why is it that I run to the folded arms of so many? Why is it that I can barely restrain myself from weeping when one single, absolutely wonderful boy falls asleep on my shoulder? Why is it that I feel the need, the compulsion to write? Selfishness. Perhaps... maybe. How many times I've thought, Damn it, girl, you need a therapist. Or maybe someone willing to see me, willing to see me and stick around. Someone who I'm maybe not always convenient for, but who sticks around anyway. That's right... someone who sticks. A sticky person. You know, it's times like these I wished I smoked. I would light up a... what? Camel light? Marlboro? Yes, a Marlboro, exquisitely inhale deeply. Exhale, slowly, like an actress in a Woody Allen movie. Be addicted to something. Take pleasure from something. Kill myself in "a long drawn-out form of self-loathing induced suicide." (love you tin soldier) God, how bad I want a cigarette. Never smoked one in my life, yet I can feel the craving for nicotine in my blood right now. God I want to be held. Better yet, maybe be the one holding. Be addicted to someone who maybe doesn't mind it so much. I miss school and the home that I made there, with my bed and my pictures and my board with all my ticket stubs and phone numbers. I miss my things, my places, and so very especially my people. I want to go home.


sticky Most people look at me like I'm crazy when I tell then I'm not excited about going home. Why, it's so boring there, I say, there's nothing to do! All my friends from highschool are here. Is that really the reason? Or maybe it's the fact that I hate to see my mother older than she was the last time I saw her, or the fact that I hate to see my father's waistline has expanded, leading him by the belt-loop into the hands of the heart attack waiting around the corner? Damn them! Damn them both! Damn my own selfishness. Why is it that I run to the folded arms of so many? Why is it that I can barely restrain myself from weeping when one single, absolutely wonderful boy falls asleep on my shoulder? Why is it that I feel the need, the compulsion to write? Selfishness. Perhaps... maybe. How many times I've thought, Damn it, girl, you need a therapist. Or maybe someone willing to see me, willing to see me and stick around. Someone who I'm maybe not always convenient for, but who sticks around anyway. That's right... someone who sticks. A sticky person. You know, it's times like these I wished I smoked. I would light up a... what? Camel light? Marlboro? Yes, a Marlboro, exquisitely inhale deeply. Exhale, slowly, like an actress in a Woody Allen movie. Be addicted to something. Take pleasure from something. Kill myself in "a long drawn-out form of self-loathing induced suicide." (love you tin soldier) God, how bad I want a cigarette. Never smoked one in my life, yet I can feel the craving for nicotine in my blood right now. God I want to be held. Better yet, maybe be the one holding. Be addicted to someone who maybe doesn't mind it so much. I miss school and the home that I made there, with my bed and my pictures and my board with all my ticket stubs and phone numbers. I miss my things, my places, and so very especially my people. I want to go home.

faaver beans You are my little wolf cub... no longer an old man in my eyes, but a hungry boy with a thirst for flesh. And I have the insatiable need to be intoxicated right now... I initiated you into the arts of sin, took what might have been a pure soul and ate it with some faaver beans and a nice cianti. I still feel the burn of your chin, your clumbsy fingers, your wild heart. Never had anyone loved the way you loved me this night... our little secret... but everyone will know. Like they always know. I will erase your smell now, knock it from my senses... the wine has reached my brain now, it numbs me, this memory. What is there but lust for us now? What is there now that only the pleasures of our bodies can quench? The whole time I wanted to cry out, to release myself from this prison I create everytime. But I could not, for you, you seemed to need it, where I did not. And now the wine like blood. Drink of me, boy. I know I do not love you... I know I do not want you again. But you will come again, and I will take you again, until it is I you don't need anymore, and not the other way around the rosie. Another notch on the bedpost, another number on the list, another name to hide from. That is what you've become, something I never wanted, dreaded, but I am to foolish to stop. It will happen again and again until I am dead. But your smell, you smell, like musk and stench and love and hate. I can not escape from it... it will follow me, like a memory. I need more blood, need more wine, need more sin, need more time, need more hate, need more anything.. let me go.