Tuesday, August 14, 2012

Door Knobs

This morning he asked me why I didn't  want to be loved. Why I didn't  want him to love me. And it's times like these that require grace and understanding, compassion and intimacy. It's times like these when I fail to deliver. The curtain goes up, spot light is on, but no one is standing in it. It is in that very moment where my inability to grasp on to the last bit of my humanity leaves me tongue twisted and terrified. I wish questions didn't require answers because I never seem to have a good response to the important ones. What I want to say is that I do want him to love me. I want him to love me with every ounce of his entire being. So that breathing gets harder when I'm not around. I want his heart to scorch his chest; third degree burns every time my eyelashes hit his cheeks. I want him to love me so much that he'd tear off his skin if I ever left him. The only problem is that I don't want to love him back. Not the same way. Not at all. The queen and her jester. The host and the parasite. The relationship: one gains everything and the other losses all. Love is a gamble. You're all in, the stakes are high. But I'm no lady luck and these odds aren't in our favor. I want to say all of the beautiful lies I can think of so that he never stops believing in love. Cause I know what it's like to not believe. Somewhere along these crooked lines I've stopped believing in anything at all. I want to say things to him that make him start building our future in his head. But I won't and I can't. I can't say anything at all. It's actions that matter. It's what you do that counts. So I throw back the sheets, lift myself from the bed. I grab my keys, my bag, turn the door knob and close the door behind me.

The Corner of Hollywood and Las Palmas

Last call, lights up. It’s Saturday to you, but for these people it could be Tuesday. The music’s stopped, now everything just rings. Colors blend, faces melt, and you burn your throat one last time. Set the glass down, look over at the bottle. Empty. When did that happen? What happens in this place must take place in a some different dimension. There’s no such thing as time here, but everything has a time limit. There is no distance between the people infesting this space. Endless length, endless width. No time? No space? No length or with? No dimension. So where did we all go? This isn't the place to go looking for answers, nor is it the place to ask these kinds of questions. Just go with it.
So if you haven’t defiled your lungs yet, if you haven’t littered your nasal passages or tortured your liver by now…well, it’s too late. Not here, the club owners got a business to run, not addictions to feed. At least I think. 2 a.m. when the place where the stars hang out becomes the place where the scars come out. You don’t know why you’re even still here. Night life always seemed a little bit more like night death to you. None of these people are real, they aren’t actually alive, that’s how they ended up here. Trying to get to born, maybe again, maybe for the first time. You don’t really give a fuck. Not about these people with their too long lashes and their too tall heels and their fake fucking facades and their reputations, whether they're building them or destroying them. Drastic. Plastic. Yea you’ve talked to them but there isn’t room for any real conversation cause the clubs always too packed. No one every actually says anything here. How could they, with their faces painted and their bodies plastered, and their minds drained.?
This is what you’d normally be thinking but tonight you’re too fucked up to be resilient. You just float off into the crowd. Stumble to the door. Fuck it’s far. Nearest lounge chair. Just need to sit. Your friends will find you so you just close your eyes for a second. From an arm’s length away, an unfamiliar voice, “Where you from?” You’re initial reaction is defensive; you think, "What the fuck do you care? " You say, “Studio City.” He is too. "What's your name?" You stop staring at the ground, jerk to the left, too fast cause now you can't see anything. Should not have had that much to drink. When your vision comes back you're not in the shadowy corners of what used to be a night club, but you're in a field. The greenest, green you've ever seen. And in seconds the field zooms out becoming two distant circles. His eyes. Holy shit. Maybe you're just that wasted but you've never seen anything so fucking green before in your life.
How long has it been quiet? How long have you been starring? Hopefully he just thinks you're drunk. You've never felt so insecure with those green lasers drilling right through you. You get out the bricks, start building that wall. "Why do you wanna know?" "Because I'd like to know and because you wanna tell me." He's right, absolutely, unquestionably right. You want him to know it and never forget it. And you have no fucking clue why. "Erin". He repeats it back to you and your ears melt. You play 20 questions for a little while longer and soon you're giggling, and laughing, he's funny, and you're flirty. You think, "What the fuck am I doing?" The gap between the two of you closes and you're touching and teasing.  You know its late but the night has just started all over for you.
Here comes the black suit and the bald head forcing you to leave. For the first time in your existence you don't want to leave the night club. This can't end here. Standing outside, the cold breeze reminds you where you are. The dark, dirty streets of Hollywood close in on you again. You know that whether you're in Hollywood or not, life's no fucking movie and you're short encounter with romance is over. Cut. That's a wrap. Go home. You're drunk, and sloppy, and stupid. There's a hand on your hand. His hand, and you actually hold it. You know you should pull away but you can't. So you're in his car, you're in his apartment with no clue how you got there, but you're so glad you are. No one in the world knows where you are, or how to save you, or if you need saving. but you're not scared, not at all. You've never been so excited, and comfortable, and captivated. There's real conversation, and interest. You're consumed by each other. Face to face. Sitting on the white sheets of his sky scraper of a bed. You're up so high and you're in his arms. And he could drop you, rather push you off the side. Body on Body. So you're not that kinda girl, but he’s not that kinda guy. So how did we end up here. Together in the dark. lights off, last call. Is this the drop? Is this the fall?