For something different...

I write.
I write all the time, I write a lot, but like most writers, I hate my own writing, so I hesitate to show anyone.
I cannot wait to take creative writing in university.

But until then...mostly because I'm too swamped with school to think up any good posts...
A glimpse of the lit slut's future bestseller?
Ha.
In my dreams.



I wish I could tell her that I’m on to great things, but the days blur together in mediocrity. I am nothing special.
If she was nothing special, maybe we would have worked together.
I wake, long fingers usually tapered around a pen, the ink staining my sheets. I fall asleep scribbling musings in a notebook, a private game to see whether I can fall asleep before my mind does. Because the moment your thoughts stop buzzing, and that quietness envelopes you, that is unbearable.
Forever in the pursuit of nothing. She was the only thing that seemed to give me meaning, a flicker of hope, but I threw her away.
The old man living in the apartment next door, I pass him when I go to get the morning papers. His sunken, weary eyes always follow us, and Lukas and I, we are more similar to him than he will ever know. He does not know what to make of us, our appearances so downtrodden, but our behavior so respectable in his presence. Lukas always tips his hat, and I incline my head as I pass him to get the papers. Lukas has a subscription to some German newspaper that his mother signed him up for, hoping to maintain his national pride. Lukas skims it while he chain smokes, and I do the same to the New York Times. I unlock the mailbox in the graffiti-strewn hallway, staring out the small window in the front doors, a nameless brochure fluttering across the sidewalk in a silent plea. So many of these circulate in the city, thinking they have the power to change the world, but they always end up in the garbage bin within hours. Our landfills must be moral temples.


This girl and I, we knew that we fit before we even knew each other’s names.
I try to carve away my edges, to make myself lose shape so that she will think we are no longer the same.
This girl and I, we hold hands, and I feel like I am seconds from drowning.
We wandered through forests and meadows, trying to find someplace where we could both exist.
We are the rainbow that you see in a toxic oil spill.
We are drowning the seagulls.

I send her my tattered copy of Howl, express mail, and picture her face when she receives it.
I leave no return address.
She will know who it’s from.
I am with you in Rockland, I think. I am with you forever, if I could just stop running.
This is my way of saying that this is still happening.
This is still breathing, we can resuscitate it.
We can make this happen, this time around.
I see it stretch like a new kitten with a belly full of cream.
It’s sleepy, this love, but it’s still there.

We do not belong.
Not to each other.
Not to ourselves.
We are the gutter babies.
We are breaking the speed of light, just to have a pocket of time that is hidden.

(c) A.S.