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Hotel Books
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813 Maryland St.
She put bullet through a Bible and thought it would empower her, but she felt nothing and that's all she needed, to finally feel nothing. She stopped by my house the next morning and said “I'm sorry but I still don't feel like this life is worth living, you did all you can you do.” I looked at her with tears in my eyes and said “Darling, I'm sorry, but I'm glad I'm not you.” She said “At least I know this is all temporary but the carpet grains will still hold stains, even when you die.” You won't have to face them but they will remain. She said she had enough baggage to rattle the cage of rage, worthless page after page to rearrange the strange game of pain, seeping further into a strain of remains. Tags with names, she felt like the lone survivor of a civil war of inner peace versus inner desire, hoping somehow to change. The casualties were her hope and her sanity, a damaging calamity of fragile ideals being washed away when waging war against a staging of poor ideologies that lead to death, but at least she felt something and at least it all meant something.
There's no way to see beauty when its just the blind leading the blind. There's no way to see beauty when its just losing love to justify your stupid lies.
She said, “I watched my house catch fire and I didn't feel a thing.” Well darling, congratulations, I wish I had that sort of inner peace. I'm digging into catacombs built beneath this frame I call a body and expectations diminish as I uncovered there's nothing underneath hiding.
She had taken what I once needed to feel like I could be something and I spent so long being bitter but now I'm finally celebrating, thanking God for those brief moments where my eyes met hers. And she was caught in a life that felt like one rapid blur the spur of the moment cure for her boredom and my lack of adventure.
We were caught somewhere between a pack of menthols she kept on the nightstand where she would sleep and a broken down truck that used to drive her to her dreams but now sat as an eye sore metaphor for the home we created to nourish our weaknesses; the brittle middle ground sounding this rebound argument with God that we call living. It was nothing not even trying to win any sort of race, I just wanted to finish, or at least sort of place but as I kept running I diminished the existence I created out of love so I can breath easier. When I tried to fall asleep in this ocean pushing me side to side on her broken dreams.
She said, “It's easier to fall asleep just knowing that when I have something to say somebody's listening to me.” She said, “I don't care if I have a plan. I don't care if I understand all I need to know is that I have some sort of calling. I just need to know that somebody is listening.”
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