Ich kannte dich seit dem Schwimmunterricht,
sah dich kraulen mit bravem Gesicht.
Ich war vielleicht sechs, du höchstens sieben,
damals durfte man Mädchen nicht lieben.
Später, ich schreib es hier schwermütig nieder,
sahen wir uns in der Fünften wieder.
Schulbänke auseinander schieben –
und immer noch durfte man Mädchen nicht lieben.
Ein paar Jahre drauf, ich hoffte es schon,
feierten wir die Konfirmation.
Du und dein Kleid, als ich euch sah,
ahnte ich langsam, was Liebe war.
Ich schummelte mich durchs Abitur,
du nahmst es mit Leichtigkeit, wie alles nur.
Mit Zeugnis und Freund, das letzte Mal ich dich sah:
Ich wusste schon längst, was Liebe war.
Du begannst ein Studium der Biologie,
ich sah dich nicht selten, ich sah dich nie!
Du lerntest Formeln, irgendwo hier im Land
Da war bei mir längst die Liebe entflammt.
Tobias meint dich gesehen zu haben,
am Nordseestrand, mit einem anderen in deinen Armen.
Ich wünschte, er hätte es niemals erzählt,
zum ersten Mal fand ich, dass Liebe quält.
„Andere Mütter haben auch schöne Töchter“,
Hass dem Verfasser und dem Verfechter.
Ich habe die Mütter kennen gelernt
und mich darauf von den Töchtern entfernt.
Wo magst du sein, was wirst du grad tun?
Und wann werden all diese Fragen ruh’n?
Kennst du mich noch? Mich überhaupt?
Hast du mich jemals angeschaut?
Ich werde dich googeln, mich mit Fotos ernähren.
Ich werde dich googeln, du kannst dich nicht wehren.
Ich werde dich googeln, ohne dass du es weißt.
Ich werde dich googeln, weil ich weiß, wie du heißt!
Ich tipp deinen Namen, kann es kaum erwarten,
die Suchanfrage jetzt endlich zu starten.
Mit Gier drück ich Tasten, doch vom Ergebnis geschunden:
„Keine übereinstimmenden Dokumente gefunden!“
Samstag, 13. Dezember 2008
Remember.
We were six,
We used to sit on top of the hill, grass tickling at our ankles, and lace ourselves crowns of clovers and thistles. We’d be the fucking kings of the world together and climb trees and eat knotty little hard pretzels with lemonade.
We were nine,
We would play with our little green soldier figurines that we bought for three pennies a piece at your crazy neighbor’s yard sale. We’d kill them all off one by one and smile while making machine-gun noises because finally we had control over someone other than ourselves.
We were eleven,
We were always throwing friendly punches at each other just so we could compare bruises the next day. We’d have contests to see who could scale the chain link fence the fastest, and whoever won would end up with aching arms and a big grin and that wonderful satisfaction of victory.
We were thirteen,
We looked at pictures of hot girls together, and you would say how it made your stomach feel all funny. And I would agree, my stomach slightly uneasy as well, but I hadn’t known that feeling ‘funny’ wasn’t the same as feeling ‘completely uninterested’.
We were fifteen,
We would hang out after school together and smoke cigarettes we stole from your brother. You only did it because you thought it looked cool and somehow tasted alright. I only did it because I always thought your parted lips looked pretty with wisps of smoke sifting between them.
We were sixteen,
We moved into our own loft because our parents were tired of our ‘boyish ways’. Sometimes I’d wake up to the sight of you shoving money into the palm of another pretty whore and shooing her out the door. It made me strangely sad when that happened, and I never really understood why.
We were seventeen,
We liked to fuck around on the two old Gibson guitars you’d filched from your dad (who, admit it, was totally stuck in the ‘80s). I would sort-of-kind-of-not-really sing pathetic little melodies and watch as you ran your quick fingers across the neck of your guitar, and it would sort of urge spurring heat through my body because I’d secretly pretend I was the Gibson you were holding.
We were eighteen,
We would go up to the top of that hill from our childhood and lie back on dead grass and peer up at the midnight sky, silver sequins sewn to navy velvet. We’d talk about everything and sometimes you’d say stuff that made my stomach feel ‘funny’, but when I told you, all you did was make this little choking laughing noise and tell me that we should get back home.
When we were still eighteen,
We would sit on our ratty reddish couch and talk, just talk about everything. Well, really, you’d done most of the talking, and I’d done most of the watching as your mouth formed raspy words. One time I had just stopped caring and kissed you in the dip of your collarbone, and it had only progressed from there. You hadn’t protested, not even a bit, until after we’d finished everything.
Whenever I look at the crescent-shaped scar that you unintentionally carved onto my hip with your fingernails,
Or the plastic green army men in the toy store window,
Or the chain link fence outside the burnt-down gas station,
I can’t help but miss you a whole fucking lot.
We used to sit on top of the hill, grass tickling at our ankles, and lace ourselves crowns of clovers and thistles. We’d be the fucking kings of the world together and climb trees and eat knotty little hard pretzels with lemonade.
We were nine,
We would play with our little green soldier figurines that we bought for three pennies a piece at your crazy neighbor’s yard sale. We’d kill them all off one by one and smile while making machine-gun noises because finally we had control over someone other than ourselves.
We were eleven,
We were always throwing friendly punches at each other just so we could compare bruises the next day. We’d have contests to see who could scale the chain link fence the fastest, and whoever won would end up with aching arms and a big grin and that wonderful satisfaction of victory.
We were thirteen,
We looked at pictures of hot girls together, and you would say how it made your stomach feel all funny. And I would agree, my stomach slightly uneasy as well, but I hadn’t known that feeling ‘funny’ wasn’t the same as feeling ‘completely uninterested’.
We were fifteen,
We would hang out after school together and smoke cigarettes we stole from your brother. You only did it because you thought it looked cool and somehow tasted alright. I only did it because I always thought your parted lips looked pretty with wisps of smoke sifting between them.
We were sixteen,
We moved into our own loft because our parents were tired of our ‘boyish ways’. Sometimes I’d wake up to the sight of you shoving money into the palm of another pretty whore and shooing her out the door. It made me strangely sad when that happened, and I never really understood why.
We were seventeen,
We liked to fuck around on the two old Gibson guitars you’d filched from your dad (who, admit it, was totally stuck in the ‘80s). I would sort-of-kind-of-not-really sing pathetic little melodies and watch as you ran your quick fingers across the neck of your guitar, and it would sort of urge spurring heat through my body because I’d secretly pretend I was the Gibson you were holding.
We were eighteen,
We would go up to the top of that hill from our childhood and lie back on dead grass and peer up at the midnight sky, silver sequins sewn to navy velvet. We’d talk about everything and sometimes you’d say stuff that made my stomach feel ‘funny’, but when I told you, all you did was make this little choking laughing noise and tell me that we should get back home.
When we were still eighteen,
We would sit on our ratty reddish couch and talk, just talk about everything. Well, really, you’d done most of the talking, and I’d done most of the watching as your mouth formed raspy words. One time I had just stopped caring and kissed you in the dip of your collarbone, and it had only progressed from there. You hadn’t protested, not even a bit, until after we’d finished everything.
Whenever I look at the crescent-shaped scar that you unintentionally carved onto my hip with your fingernails,
Or the plastic green army men in the toy store window,
Or the chain link fence outside the burnt-down gas station,
I can’t help but miss you a whole fucking lot.
Freitag, 28. November 2008
Never Ending Circle
She gets a call
In the dark of night
Answered with dread
Something's not right
She stop in her tracks
With horrible news
Shaking her head
Wants to refuse
She picks up her friend
and rushes downtown
Hearts full of fear
The worst to be found
She can't see the ground
She can't walk ahead
For entering the room
She knows he is dead
And in months that follow
Her mind flashes back
To that hospital room
Where fears become fact
The questions arise
Why? she screams why!
Did that young man
Have to suffer and die.
Part II
The next call comes
Received with delight
Glad to be awoken
In the middle of the night
Head hits the pillow
Breathes out a sigh
A smile turns her lips
Only she knows why
She tiptoes in
And arrives at the place
Where death and new life
Mix and embrace
As she walks in
Smiles greet her face
Her feelings reversed
About this small space
In the dark of night
Answered with dread
Something's not right
She stop in her tracks
With horrible news
Shaking her head
Wants to refuse
She picks up her friend
and rushes downtown
Hearts full of fear
The worst to be found
She can't see the ground
She can't walk ahead
For entering the room
She knows he is dead
And in months that follow
Her mind flashes back
To that hospital room
Where fears become fact
The questions arise
Why? she screams why!
Did that young man
Have to suffer and die.
Part II
The next call comes
Received with delight
Glad to be awoken
In the middle of the night
Head hits the pillow
Breathes out a sigh
A smile turns her lips
Only she knows why
She tiptoes in
And arrives at the place
Where death and new life
Mix and embrace
As she walks in
Smiles greet her face
Her feelings reversed
About this small space
I want spring
More than I wanted winter last year. More than I want anything presently. As easy as school undoubtedly seem to be, I'm not ready for it.
I want crisp air and layers and leaves and the good kind of solitude.
And I want to see everyone again.And I'll scream under my breath: "I'm alive", to each and everyone I re-meet.
And I want people to see me, without me caring what they thing, like I always said I didn't.
And I want to enjoy two more years of this.
I'm prepared for this, I know what's coming. I'm wiser.
It's just the right brew... like the coffee I'm going to go make.
Burst of Joy
My life is incredibly hectic right now, and held together only by the fact that I'm keeping it all semi-organized in my new planner. Every time someone asks me to do something extra I just feel like I'm going to pop... I'm the kind of person who needs breathing room and quiet, empty spaces.
to my great amusement, my parents reported to me that while at their card club, all of my friends parents were talking about booking me to do their kid's pictures next year. At this rate, and this is completely honest, I'm going to have to start scheduling this year. It's good though... it'll secure me some money next summer + my job.
I'm really glad that my time is more organized this year. I'm actually able to function day to day without freaking out about "whens". If this was me last year, I'd be doubled over with the pressure of 8 classes, no lunch or study hall, work, senior photos, school paper, scholarships, standardized test prep, and actually being a functioning member of society, AND art. I can always find time for art.
Whew... I feel much better now that I've gotten all of that out of my head. Less poetic than normal... I always write what comes to my mind, and in this case, it was my entire life. Sometimes I just need to empty it all out, and look at in the third person.
I'm so grateful for everything... everyone... for my past. People say they wish they hadn't done this or that, but forget that it's those things that make us who we are. Mistakes are only mistakes if you just let them pass by without examining them. My life is one giant mistake I'm proud to say.
One massive, beautiful, romantic, dreaming, idealistic, silent, gazing mistake.
Today, one of my best friends asked me what the difference was between loving and being in love.
And I knew exactly what to say.
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