i could tell any story. if i wanted, i could write a novel about my mother and how beautiful she was a sixteen or i could make a lighthouse a person, but i cannot tell you the color or her eyes. it's that that i don't know it; i just can't tell you. it's not a color, it's a place.
her eyes are like Chicago. there's life and lights and lakes, but there's a sadness, too. even so, it's a happy kind of sad. the kind that gives you hope.
sometimes when i'm high i think that i'm dead, because i get numb. not physically senseless, but just mentally dazed. i forget where i am. i like that. it seems sometimes like i am a place, i am all the street signs and the cracks in the road and badly painted house down the way. see the really faint dot on the map? that's me. scribbled in by passerby because i'm just somewhere to go. but she is an eraser. she makes me new, undiscovered. i like that. see, it sometimes feels like i've been sought out, i've been used and dirtied and i'm ugly.
relapse has been a tease lately. there's something ruthless and stunning about metal; totally different kind of high. you come off the cloud and there are pieces of you on the floor. after i'm done, i always know where i am. i hate that part. i am more than a dirty bathroom floor in the cold part of an empty house.
and she is so much more than a sloppy thought just before i fall asleep, and she is more than a jumble of letters that will fade before they are mailed; it's a shame i might never tell her.
that is my fault. i can accept that. and maybe one day i can change it, but until then, i will try and put her into words and i will walk myself through life, because that is what i do.