13 November 2011

When a door closes God opens a window, but how to use that escape route when the open door is all I can think about?

A pillar of salt trying to take back that last glance and salvage any grain of memory that seems to be slipping through the hour glass. Slipping through the open door out and into the night...

The memories flood like thousands of stars illuminating the path to an inevitable closed door.

I fumble for my keys in my pocket, unlock the gate, stumble up the stairs and carry myself alone to a dark room...

closing the window that's letting the cold in.

-from the desk of S.C. Browne

The Nights Are Cold

Sometimes it's hard to tell

If the tears I cry

Are because public transit won't come

And I'll be late to work

Or because every memory I have in this city

includes you.

The months spent trying to forget.

And the months spent trying to not forget you.

Sad for everything I know

and sad for what I don't.

And how to let go

when letting go is the last thing I want to do

and the first thing I need to do

to not cry on the God damn bus.

-from the desk of S.C. Browne

A Car That Sped

Razorblade racing stripes on the wrist.

Cigarette burn traffic lights on the arm.

Trying to let go.

Trying to stop your memory from racing away from me.

So I leave traces.

Tracks to remind me how to get back to you.

I can slash and burn and you will never know.

Traces.

Scars.

Scars to take me home.

Take me to where you may be.


-from the desk of S.C. Browne

I'm trying not to move... it's just your ghost passing through.

I pull my own hair... I touch my face.  I tug at my ears.  Proof that I am still here. Proof that I exist. 

Proof that I still feel.  Anything. 

  You're touch has become imaginary.  Ghostly in the way that I remember it. A touch that gives me goosebumps and reminds me that I have been touched but I don't know from who anymore.  -from the desk of S.C. Browne 

Sundazed to the Core pt 2

I wanted to cut.

I wanted to bloodlet.

The fire is strong inside me.
I don't know how to put it out.

I don't know how to truly let go.

I poured hydrogen peroxide on my 3 matching burns and put neosporin on it.

I am not a teenage girl.

I am an idiot heart.

-from the desk of S.C. Browne

take me out to the ball game...

Three strikes you're out.

Take me out to the ball game and leave me sitting in the stands.

The home run hit.

The bases stolen.

And on the jumbo-tron a fan left feigning victory

though the team is losing.

Saving face to save my heart.

-from the desk of S.C. Browne

between the bars

Grasping at straws to keep you in my life.

Making friends with mistakes that you made
that I marry to my own.

Mistakes married
and choices divorced.

To keep you as something close to my heart.

You'll never know.

And I'll never tell.

How I held out in the dark to feel you close.

-from the desk of S.C. Browne

whenever you breathe out... I'm breathing in.

I keep dropping sizes.

And the tailor can't keep up.

With a heart that swells and starves.

Taken out.

Taken in.

Left out.

The threads hang like reminders

that it never really fit.

But we shared that love in the in-between.

I was used to we, siamese.

- from the desk of S. C. Browne

Save a secret for the moon.

And in the gallery
between the heaves of storm
the tears fell for your sweetness.

This brilliant little man in love.

In love with the moon and the stars.

Why ask for the moon when you have the stars?


-from the desk of S.C. Browne

I kissed the bottle...

Blue boys for blue moods
found at the bottom
of Bourbon bottles.

Bitters and soda and bitter tears
for small victories
and great losses

Hushed exchanges of hearts
that no baited breath could ever betray.

Your secrets are safe with me.

-from the desk of S.C. Browne

y cada día un instante volver a pensar en ti.

Se acercan los dias.

Y con cada momento se vienen callendo los momentos.

Memorias que no se pueden apagar.

Ni con la lluvia que no para de caer.

-from the desk of S.C. Browne

Sundazed to the Core

It's raining where I am, and I can't stop thinking about the phrase,

"Like tears in rain."

I feel useless and out of control.

- from the desk of S.C. Browne

Edit the sad parts

When life gives you lemons...

I always suggest throwing them at someone.

These lemons are harsh... not meyers... but something more tart than your local lemonade stand.

I don't know what to say to you that would make things better.

Like better is something that we all want.

Guess I have to think about choice.

Because we don't choose these things.

But wouldn't be easier if we could?

- from the desk of S.C. Browne

Japonaise

Good.

Where am I supposed to find myself in that word?
Good that I survived an event that blows my mind.
Good that I still wonder if I'm HIV+?
That I wonder if the choices I made for myself in my life make sense?

I FOUND THEM AND I MADE THEM BREAK MY HEART...
eternally stuck in a 20something void that gives me access to making horrible decisions based on lust.

My real name is four letters long and doesn't rhyme with good at all.

And now I'm stuck listening to drunk people argue the merits of the word faggot in different languages outside my window.

Faggot suits me fine, like a horribly amazing Genet dream I never realised was my life.

And it's good I survived an anti-climatic environmental shit storm...

if only to write another posting.

- from the desk of S.C. Browne.