Thursday, April 15, 2004

well, the truth is that
i kinda don't care what you want
i sorta don't care what i look like, or what time i'm calling you
i sorta just want to be all over you no matter what mood you're in
i kinda hate the way you don't shut your fucking eyes
and i sorta don't care whether or not i'm on the rag
i kinda sorta just want to prance around the house in my lingerie and combat boots
and you kinda have to tell me i'm the most beautiful thing you've ever seen.
i kinda just want to scream when i feel like it
i sorta don't care if you're nervous, or paranoid
i'll kinda not talk to you if everything doesn't go my way
and i'll kinda still expect you to kiss my ass.
i kinda hate it when you don't call me back,
or say you will and kinda forget.
i kinda only want marks where no one can see them
but i'll sorta tear you up all over the place
i kinda want you to be crazy with me
but i sorta wish i wasn't crazy
i kinda just really want you to love me
eve though i really sorta want everything else.
*bettie* at 10:00 AM

maybe if you could love me just this once
i'd be ok.
and maybe you could teach me someday
how to do it.
maybe if you could like me just this once
i'd be ok.
and maybe i could give up my
narcissistic paranoia.
*bettie* at 9:59 AM

it's quiet in this room and i,
i just want to whisper
in that mystifying way
something genius and questionable and debateable.
i want you to think on what i give you,
to mill and chew on it for hours.
let me share with you some insight,
some seeing in i've done that
YOU HAVEN'T.
and maybe the wind will sweep me up next,
maybe it'll pick me up and carry me away
and i'll only be your vision.
fantasy.
i'm ready to be something otherworldly
and beautiful,
for all those fairy tales to come true.
it's my turn to be that goddess cinderella,
that genius they promised me girls can be, too.
and there's always room for you to learn
to respect me,
or maybe even to love me
instead of fake awes.
i can fool your sense of reality and norm,
but i guess i'll never quite be the
mythical creature i wanted.
medusa, maybe.
*bettie* at 9:57 AM

"you're such a little girl!"
she exclaims to me, as if i wasn't in denial of the fact.
i look the other way, and down to the floor.
maybe i am.
but no, no wait
i'm not.
yes i am. i can't kid myself, even.
it's always the same, the same for me. i'm too old, i'm too young. she's so cute, she's so picturesque, she's so adorable. she's such a bitch, she's not THAT cute, she's so fucking self-centered.
"yeah, she hates you."
yeah, so does everyone. once it comes down to it, anyway.
let me tell you all a story about the way my life works, paraphrased from something bobbi
said about me.
after my great job at making first impressions, you'll be absolutely enamored with me for.. two months. and then, for two more months, you'll hate me with a passion and refuse to talk to me. and then, you find yourself missing me terribly, and end up craving my touch and meatless tacos. and then the cycle repeats.
it was the fist time i heard it out of someone's mouth
who mattered, anyway.
and it was true.
everyone hates me.
at least at some point.
as much as i hate mediocrity, i find myself wondering if maybe, in small to moderate doses, it would do me some good.
and then, there was that coment.
the one about trying to act afflicted.
i wanted to cry.
and down my throat, i felt those tears. even if they were defying gravity.

*bettie* at 9:57 AM

limbs run across eachother wrapidly
spines entertwine,
hold your hand deep in mine.
eyes burn a poetic lie into my skin,
but i brand willingly-
you can touch anytime.

*bettie* at 9:56 AM

there are times when i want to grab
shake you
and rattle some sense in
your skin.
there are times when i want to grab
hold you
and whisper the way i know.
cut off those lie sleeves
and expose the truth,
naked in abrasive beauty.
there are times when i want to grab
steal you
and make it all just fade away.
*bettie* at 9:55 AM

scarlet starlet
don't let your scars
engulf you.

*bettie* at 9:55 AM

inout. inout.
skip.
inout. inout.
steady rhthym, paints my heart in assymetry.
there was you.
skip.
there was you.
and all the while, in my skip, i'm
lying dormant and still,
idealizing your return.
skip forward.
your voice pounds in my ears, steady rhthym in which
there is no pattern at all.
i'm imagining.
skip.
i'm imagining.
so maybe i'm all alone.
on my floor, in layers of blankets and layers of
memory, refusing to roll over.
but your jacket, and the space i left next to me
(on the good spot),
can suggest or pretend
i still have you with me.
i will have you.
skip.
*bettie* at 9:54 AM

sick.
rocks in the pit of my stomach,
but the worst part is knowing that it's
all
my fault.
sick.
clots with blue dots pooled seamlessly
on my arm.
i couldn't say i was sorry enough times for it to matter.
sick.
you can call me crazy but
it's not enough for me.
there's never been enough for me.
sick.
scrapes and scabs and scars,
it's all the same sc's.
i could kiss them all a million times
but there's not getting better for me.
sick.
kiss me, kiss them,
it's all in your kiss.
lips speak the words of wisdom,
they beg to peel back and show the truth:
we all know i'm sick.
i just hope you love it as much as your
lips lie.
*bettie* at 9:54 AM

i want to be studied, in depth.
to have investigators, and a whole line of people just dying to know
what was going on in my life in the last few moments.
for them to nitpick all of my things,
to analyze all of my decisions.
sifting through all my possessions, they'll imagine me
and record every last detail
like it was oh so stimulating and important.
i want to be a murder trial, and for teams of money hungry dogs to
have nothing better to do with their time than argue
about my persona.
a coroner to study my remains, jotting down my every last curve
and hair
and imperfection,
but not judging.
it's my turn to be the one who matters so much
that my fucking socks will be worth something.
i want a plethora of theories on
what was going through my head that night
or what my intentions were at 9:26 pm.
whether my wounds are self inflicted
or the work of someone else.
i want to my life, my example to influence hoards of people with a
"dont do this"
"better do that"
"watch out for...".
i want that everlasting role as the victim,
in someone's heart,
and that vicious accusation of a secret life that led to my downfall,
in another.
the most horrid of horrid crimes,
the worst of the worst of the worst,
and i'm inviting it with open arms.
come take me, i'm asking for it.
*bettie* at 9:53 AM

i need that excitement.
i need that screaming, pounding roar.
jump out of my little girl panties and run,
bawling,
to that adrenaline salt lick, just for a taste.
no, a bite.
a big gulp- so big that my throat explodes.
because i-
i need that adrenaline like a junkie needs crack-
i need that adrenaline like i need another fucking kick in the stomach.
and me in my contortionism,
i can handle kicking MYSELF in the stomach,
and i'll do it over and over until my
pretty little panties rip off.
i need my nerves to swell,
i need to drip cold sweat,
swear to god i'll treasure it more than anything.
i need to shake like an abused baby.
i need to scream like my panties got ripped
offa me.
and i will-
swear to god that i'll do it.
*bettie* at 9:53 AM

time to swing again.
a little blue rubber crescent
swaying in the breeze, inviting me to rest.
kickoff dear,
the foundation is about to
dissappear from under your feet.
laying back, stomach knotted,
i'm finally free enough to let my hair hang down
and brush the cedar chips
like they were the sky itself.
but i'm flying, flying away like
where the hell is this going, anyway?
each step to the top is another
in this cycle of
my moods.
swinging again, back and fourth between
the stars and the moon and the sun and the trees,
between mother and father and friend and foe
and love and hate and something unknown.
my foot reaches out, one toe at a time,
to stretch a little further and see if this one
is The One
where i'll finally touch that treetop leaf.
it's so much more special at the bottom.
everything is
*bettie* at 9:53 AM

it comes to him in spells
falling on and dripping off,
he told me.
and while it sits in his head he works
so hard to try and drain it through the pen
instead of by
the way of his feet.
*bettie* at 9:53 AM

i could chop away a tiny little heart right over my chest.
but that won't make it beat.
*bettie* at 9:53 AM

oh this load of self esteem
so heavy thick it's crushing me
just love the way you build up
the jokes and lies you little fuck
i shouldve kicked your ass when i had the chance
but me, i'm a sucker for your romance
i'm only here to hear your shit
i swear i don't feel one small bit
call me drama call me slut
call me fake psychotic nut
i'll be your scapegoat, pose me fine
criticize me back in liine
excuse me please for speaking out
i forgot that all i do is pout
next time, perfect, i'll kiss your ass
put myself back in the past
because that's all i can be to you
nevermind that you aren't true
we all know i'm the bad guy here
excuse me for forgetting, dear.

*bettie* at 9:51 AM

professional anxiety-
hurry up and scream like our wails mean
anything more than a few extra dollars to
the ones whose parents paid.
they attend to their cheery distance,
a slippery siren of a girl in training.
call her statuesque but know she's only really there
for their rape-
statutory or social, political.
when these limbs learn to move themselves,
i'll get up and walk my high-heeled legs
into my own fishnet cornered destiny.
strap on my arrival and come out with a bang,
lick the remnants of censorship off your media portals.
their quick hands, my pleated strength,
and all the mumbled "please don't"s in the world
couldn't be a better formula for those hot fulfilling moments
and the blink of a single eye.
call me delicious, call me a snatch,
but i'll still always call what you do to me rape.

*bettie* at 9:49 AM

i am not to be reckoned with
but more like recorded
so only my voice can reckon with you
over and over
and the broken record that is
my conversation will never have to be
bought again.
no one wants to pay the full price to be fought with
or stand a moving target
whlie i fling my records
in record-breaking speeds.
i reckon that's a damn expensive girl, anyway.
*bettie* at 9:49 AM

words flying quick like moths
rest upon your mandarin brow.
fluttering wings in upward motions
like writing directions for a cake box.
it's a seldom silence;
surely that which whirlpooled its way into your heart,
and cosmetic tendencies.
pride in a blush brush
or love in dead lipstick.
i'm proud.
*bettie* at 9:49 AM

relational ships.
standing my one side and staring deep into the mirror,
pretending your eyes are there looking back.
or nothingness even.
i sink into the comforter/comfort
in dark dark rooms to let my ideas develop.
memory pictures.
i'd rather soak in varying degrees of comatose
than be alive to experience the fringe i'm left on.
with.
at least while relazation kicks in and
wraps its kung fu leg around my unsuspecting-
well, ok, half-way suspecting-
self.
i relate to the ships, the way they swim around
in an endless sea, looking for safe docks
but get docked for staying too long.
i'm a rusty old canoe
with cobwebs.
and since you don't like spiders, i'll be sailing into
bathtubs of immature(amateur) photographers where i can
soak into more inky black wonders that don't include sea squids.

*bettie* at 9:48 AM

i wish i could be pretty
the way i know you wish i was,
but i can never be a doll
when i'm missing all my parts.
i could be busted at the seams
or sewn up of broken dreams
or my pretty plastic lips could
be pale and colorless.
deformities withholding i confess
that i could never break
your stonecold heart with my cuteness,
that's for sure.
*bettie* at 9:47 AM

the voices speak religion and
my heart can be a pulsing bible.
churches come down, begging to get in
and penetrate my thick-skinned nature
with just one needling strand of hope.
but the voices, they decided for me
whether i was crazy or not.
and today, the first revelation came.
this is my gift, you say, but i say
it's my mind.
i'd love to find god.
but i don't want him to find me.
*bettie* at 9:47 AM

next to you with thick words
is where we weave oursevles together
like tapestry in the process,
rug of red rugged tongue.
we join together in marriage of hands,
because everyone knows
two girls means sin.
pinkredpeach
i'll color the yarns our fingers are
when we weave them together
(but not our tongues).
joined in love-
but not "in love"-
we love conceiving weaves or bonds together.
squeeze our hands a little tighter and
bite our tongues a little harder
next time the accusation of
bonded (meaning by "in love")
tries to seam rip its way in.
tighter than tight plaid playing together-
giggling wild we'll smile at them.
*bettie* at 9:46 AM

rotted blossoms through fickle branches
appear as i peer out in morn
while the fog blooms.
decay even has a time to die, you know.
wasted sunshine ceases to exist
(especially after all this rain).
ripening rips through the icy floor clouds
and somber bleakness itself can be found shuddering
from the weather.
decay even has a time to die, you know.
*bettie* at 9:46 AM

five pounds fat and she's beautiful
five pounds fat and i couldn't love her more
five pounds fat and she's beautiful
five pounds fat- but she's going to be four.

she's a cow at 77
a hippo at 88
she ruined her cal count, but she's on a fast
confesses.. diet pills are all i ate.
you can push her to binge today
just don't let her go to the bathroom alone.
you can push her to the therapist-
just don't push too hard, you could break a bone.
*bettie* at 9:45 AM

"tomorrow" and the "next day"
means never,
in a constance that is our conversation
at least bi-daily.
maybe magen isn't quite
the title most fitting-
at least i'll keep my hopes up higher than you are.
ideot/idiot, for sure,
is the label least likely
for our hyperintelligent ramblings at 2-5.
a kiss by the window and the middle of the street
just twice more
and i know that i could veer off the road and not care.
*bettie* at 9:45 AM

little pointy-tailed birds
with fat bellies and jumpy wings
rip away from the cement, as if on strings
in the birthing sunshine.
the light kisses me,
my pink-striped quiet;
sweet and warm like that night
kissing you
just so recent.
you and your jumpy nature
who ripped open your heart
to let me and my fat belly
in kissing the damage-
i want you to know that my first sunrise is one
that i want to view on your lips.
*bettie* at 9:45 AM