“In the Deep”

Via: WeHeartIt

Last night, I killed a cockroach. It was a giant motherfucker. I crushed his upper body and then tried to finish him off. But like I said, he was a giant motherfucker.

It didn’t work out so well. Instead, he just laid on his back twitching. His front legs grasping the air. A sense of panic filled me. I’ve killed many roaches with one quick step. But this guy was different. This guy hadn’t died when I stepped on him. And it left me wondering, what do animals see when they die?

There’s a scientific explanation of what we see when we are dying or have a near death experience, but like all theories, it doesn’t hold much ground. But it makes sense to me, so much so, I’m beginning to put faith in it.

I went to my “office,” as Javi calls it, and shut the door. I wanted to just let out whatever I was feeling, but I was afraid that the college players would hear me and the last thing I needed was a bunch of white kids think Mexicans are irrationally emotional.

I think it’s weird that I’m still on this trip. It’s dawning on a year now. Today, when I went to pick up a few essentials for the kitten, I strolled by the church of my childhood. I’ve been dreaming – both nocturnal and daydreaming – about revisiting its walls under better circumstances (non-funeral).

In the past, it was easier to compare my life to a film or television series’ ending. The latter making more sense, stating that when something happens, I feel that it’s the end of one thing and a beginning of another. It’s clichéd, I know, but it’s my cliché. I’m a cliché and I’ve come to live with this.

To all those that I loved. And to all those I will love. And to those I’ve left behind. And to those I’ll never forget.

Writing & Writers

Igniting the flame

Grains of Sand

Looking back, I’ve been quite the powder keg – waiting for any little spark to set me off so that I can be there to see everything that I love burn in my wake. So silly, puppet. You think you’ve got me pretty much figured out. Toss away your coins and let us play our old games to see just how well you know me. People like you need people like me so you can smile and say, “Hey, I could be worse off. I could be as fucked as you.”

Beg your pardon, please. Sit down a little to listen to the babble of a man who refuses to accept the change. I’ll spare you the dollars.

The old rockers sway in the wind. The pebbles in our boots have all been shook out. You shook me out, dear one. And you’re the reason I promised not to love another. We’ve been in far too deep to know when to back down. Is that the match in your hand. I’m too old for these games, dear one. I’ll let you make the first move. I’ll give you the check mate. I’ll give you the queen on the pedestal, knees broken at your feet. Let me grovel for remorse. Redemption. Manipulation. Erase the histories and rewrite your own.

It’s always been that way with you, hasn’t it, dear? Your talk has out grown my fiddle and your secrets have filled up my grave. You and I dug these holes and you expect me to crawl in and occupy them all. Well, fuck you and fuck your ways, dear girl. Dear little sister, porcelain lain in blue. Laid in green. So pristine, ain’t you?

People like you need people like me in order to feel secure about your life. To understand your next move. To manipulate. To play your games. To shelter your fears. To hide your secrets in the void of ocean that is our hearts. That is our minds. That make up our souls.

I’m a powder keg, waiting for you, babe, to burst through the stained glass windows and watch the religion of your heart peel away the indifference, the confusion. So take that match in your withered hand and light this fuse. We’re both too old to play this game, so please make the first move. Know that I’ve done my best for you, all the while I’ve been your personal pin cushion.

I’m sorry for this. I truly am, dear little lover. Ballerina. Dancer. Porcelain faced gleam.