it was a dia de los muertos night, a skeleton’s party. hymns for Frida mingled with the humid curls on my head and your laugh was like magic: light and electric, shiny, trebled, unbroken. you danced off the curb, every street your own magnetic parade. and then there were the nights that tempted you into falling - a soft and quiet darkness, I imagined, that bandito who stole your happiness when your happiness was too much, too high.
I know what breaking feels like (desperate breathless please remove any sharps or knives) so I tried to form words that tried to make sense, I brought you gooey chain store donuts and a plastic friendship bracelet, its charm confetti'd and glittered like a shooting star you might have wished upon when you were little. Still you ached and you ached (you smiled anyway because you’re strong) but your aches and your aches, maybe they aren’t - maybe they're brittle like skeleton bones.
the guy on the corner of old 301 and Cortez: skin Kalamata olive dark head down hand up. one dollar, just a dollar for a bamboo cross that he makes and sells on the corner of old 301 and Cortez. look away, don’t make eye contact (those are the rules for those of us cozy and cool in our cars), thank God for the tinted windows we splurged on last April. the light turns green, I’m gone - but in the rearview mirror, a gentleman on the corner of old 301 and Cortez: i could have spent one dollar for a bamboo cross i don't need i could have spent just a dollar to feel human again
you’re quite the mess, you know: chocolate ice cream on your chin, unruly curls like tameless bougainvillea on your head; your calendar strangely heavy with the starch weight of empty boxes unchecked because you don’t know how to say no to everyone else’s angst; you’ve crunched and high knee’d and planked a hundred different ways – even broke your foot kickboxing – but somehow your abs still, well, aren’t; you consume Tic-Tacs one at a time (they last longer that way) and inevitably you leave a trail of them everywhere you go (tricky little fruity turds); your bookcase wild, overgrown with unfinished journals, fledgling ideas too bold and raw and fragmented to taste the air or breathe without a struggle; you wear your best friend’s cologne – it reminds you of mermen and sailing – because perfumes don’t perfume you, ambers and florals too cowardly in their sticky patches against your pachyderm skin; you fidget, incessantly, knees that tremble like earthquakes for Chihuahuas, feet that tap and tango to the songs on repeat in your head; an annual pass to Disney World in the pocket of your wallet where a responsible amount of cash should be instead; you tell yourself you’ll live more simply: keep less (do you love it?), accumulate less (do you need it?), consume less (do you use it?), but the space around you won’t quiet – jars of ticket stubs and shelves of knickknacks too loud, too verbose to let you forget where they came from or why you cling to their cheap paper and plastic bodies; you can’t fall asleep at night, haunted by the trivial worrying of trivial worries, all the what-if’s and how-can-I's as regret and destiny threaten equally fiercely at three in the morning; you hate the shower (cue a quick jog to the mirror to check your hair for grease – it’s been a few days) but once you’re in, your body soaks and simmers and the grime slides away – you’ll be clean and weightless for a single day; someone puts a movie on and you can’t sit still: fingers itch to sketch or paint, the mind whirs with fantastic possibilities of concocted worlds, legs bounce with the music in anticipation of dance (if only you were in the thick of the film instead of staring at it); student loans and newborn twins dine on the bank account saved for trips to Europe and other dreams; your toenail polish is chipped and you're awkward as hell and you’re really quite the mess, you know, but isn't the moon resplendent with her dust and craters, too?