Comments Posted By Taylor K
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The harder I scrub, the more you spread. You sink in my pores, unfurl and wrap around my fingers and wrists as I vigorously shake and scrap and tear at my skin in futile attempts to stop the suffocating stick of you from embedding itself in my skin, my tissue, my bones. My fragile arteries betray me and bring your poison to the pulsating meaty organ that resides in my chest- unprotected and waiting. And I watch myself destruct, inside out. I let myself be obliterated into a pile of rotting flesh and burning possibilities. I let you fill me and ruin me. You didn’t force yourself in. I let you.
» Posted By Taylor K On 11.10.2013 @ 5:19 pm
I roll the puckered, wilted lemon between my hand and let the bitter juice trickle down my fingers. It runs down my wrists, wrapping around my arms in tangled, viscous vines.
It’s hot. So hot. The humid day bears down on my chest, the air thick with smog the colour of leftover cereal milk. There is no sounds, there is no movement. Even the grass is too hot to do anything but bow down to the sardonic sun, and slowly yellow and rot.
The slam of the bedroom door upstairs startles me from my stupor, and I remember that I’m suppose to be making lemonade. I notice the citric puddle that has begun to accumulate around my bare feet, and quickly drop to my knees to begin cleaning the mess I have made. God, I am disgusting. Smack! I flinch at the sickening sound as my already bruised knees collide against the marble floor in my haste. God, I am disgusting. Scathing shivers ricochets through my knee caps down to my ankles, but I scrub anyhow. Sweat trickles down my forehead in sticky beads, and the fly-aways from my braid cling to my face is silky, blonde clumps as I scrub and scrub and scrub. God, I am disgusting. Scrub, scrub, scrub harder, wash it all away.
It’s hot, so hot. I need to make lemonade.
I can hear the steps coming down the hallways steps- soft at first, but louder, almost deafening, as they approach the landing. God, I am disgusting.
“God, you are disgusting.”
I know, I know.
» Posted By Taylor K On 11.02.2013 @ 11:10 pm
I am a bag of potato chips: consistent disappointment.
You’ll find that I’m only half as much as what you bargained for,
payment not equal to this palatable illusion.
I am terrible for you.
I was a bad decision.
You didn’t actually want me,
but you thought you did.
Nothing in exchange but a brief, false sense of satisfaction
and the bitter after-taste of a flavour you thought you liked,
thought you needed.
You never learn.
I am what you crave:
a burning hunger for a late night snack of salty regret.
» Posted By Taylor K On 02.11.2013 @ 1:43 pm
Forgive my inconstant mind as it rolls and runs and tumbles away with the idea of the thing that my heart holds on to so tightly. Wait for my shallow conscious to feel guilt and you’ll never be satisfied by the remorse I can’t feel. It’s a precarious thing, to wait for a time where the I isn’t separated from the U by the other eleven letters of the alphabet that fill the space between them, but I suppose that is a another cheesy Valentine’s card, sitting on a dusty store shelf, over-used and forgotten. It’s been a long time coming, and a reality I refuse to accept. But I guess I should get used to the idea: it’s not you.
» Posted By Taylor K On 09.23.2012 @ 4:07 pm
It’s always better when we’re together.
» Posted By Taylor K On 09.17.2012 @ 10:00 pm
“This place is dead. Dead and awful. And you are too. A fake. An illusion.”
So take you’re suede shoe, and try to leave. I hope you don’t find the other, that way, perhaps, you don’t get very far. Perhaps, you’ll turn back in the candy-colored rain, with your sodden left foot, and see me: leaning against the crooked porch door, slanting a smile, in my red dancing dress, waiting. And you’ll think, “She ain’t never look more alive than right now, right there.” You’ll take that to you grave. Now who’s dead?
I’m dead but not gone.
» Posted By Taylor K On 09.16.2012 @ 10:23 pm
They found the bullet lodged in her forehead, dead centre. The coroner said if it had been a millimetre higher, the bullet may have only skimmed the frontal lobe, and she may have lived, with only some minor nerve damage. But the marksman was at such close range, it was clear he hadn’t intended for her to survive.
He had to have looked her directly in the eyes when he squeezed the trigger to end her life. And he had taped her eye lids back, so she had to look into his as he shot her dead.
» Posted By Taylor K On 05.23.2012 @ 4:53 pm
He was calling me, over and over again. Five times. Six. Eleven. Twelve. The screen would light up, and the cell phone would rotate with each vibration before the call went to voicemail. Before the screen even had the chance to fade to black, the buzzing would resume and the screen would glow once more, as he tried again and again and again to reach me.
I could have picked up. But I simply watched, and I waited for him to give up. Twenty-five. Thirty-six. Forty-one. Each attempted call I counted, calculating if every redial measured up how much he loved me, or simply a habitual reflex for his thumb to click the several buttons that made up my phone number. Between every call, I counted the number of seconds before the next one. Three seconds. Then four. After a while, it became a whole minute, and then four minutes and twenty-six seconds. Every second longer I felt his hesitation, every second longer I felt his doubt. Each second longer was his indifference.
I was going to pick up on the sixty-seventh ring. I was going to forgive him. I was going to apologize.
I think he knew this, which is why he stopped calling at sixty-six.
» Posted By Taylor K On 05.21.2012 @ 9:42 am
You had a tendency to erase everything if you decided you didn’t like it. Once, after writing nearly thirty seven pages of a story that had come to you on a whim, you stood up and threw your laptop out the apartment window, and watched it plummet sixteen stories to the pavement. The whole thing was smashed to bits; the hard drive, and the story. Some of your other outbursts were less dramatic- you simply pressed the backspace key, or burned the papers, or erased the sentences that your pencil had so carefully carved out. They were also a rarity. The occurrences were so few, I could easily count them on my hand.
It had never bothered me, to watch you destroy whole manuscripts, entire notebooks, and over priced laptops. You were a writer, you didn’t look back, right? No looking back.
Unfortunately, you liked to erase whole people- not just characters, and plot lines- too. You treated them as particles of graphite, left over residue from your pencil. You would brush them off, blow them off, and finally, erase their canvas until it was white, and empty again. And you never looked back.
Please, look back, at me.
» Posted By Taylor K On 05.17.2012 @ 7:48 pm
He walk along the hallowed rows of the tombstones, hardly hesitating to take the time and read the names of the dead, only softly brushing his fingertips along each mounted grave. Some were so old that they seemed nothing more than moss covered rocks. Others were still fresh and new; soft marble or hard granite with an expensive lustre.
“I used to think God had a plan for us,” he said, as he crouched down to run his palm over the upturned earth at one of the graves, “I used to think, that we would ‘rise again’, as his son did.” He stood again, and surveyed he ruins, and what was left of the community cemetery.
“I never thought… that this is what He had in mind…” he half sobbed. He hung his head, and I watch him become enveloped in his own defeat.
All the graves were empty. We knew this, and not because we had cleared the graves of the bodies ourselves.
We knew because we watched the skeletal, maggot infested bodies, climb out of the earth themselves.
» Posted By Taylor K On 04.30.2012 @ 8:24 pm
His alibi was that he was with me. That he was beside me, in bed, at two am on Tuesday morning, in our apartment on West Street and Third, on the fourth floor in room 452b. He was on the left side, and I was on the right, like always. That was his alibi.
It was a lie of course. Because I was not in room 452b on the fourth floor in our apartment on West Street and Third, on Tuesday at two in the morning. I was not in bed, him on my left side. I was on top of Nathan, on his kitchen counter, at 2am on Tuesday morning, in his duplex on Willis Crescent.
It was a lie of course. Because he was not in room 452b on the fourth floor in our apartment on West Street and Third, on Tuesday at 2am in the morning. If he had been in room 452b, in our bed, he would have known I was not there.
His alibi was that he was with me. And I confirmed, so that I didn’t have to explain who Nathan was, and why I was on top of him at 2 in the morning, and not in my own bed, under the white white sheets, with my own husband.
» Posted By Taylor K On 04.29.2012 @ 8:50 pm
“What did I do?”
I used to think that it was my actions that defined me, that mattered. I thought that was how everyone judged me too; on the things that I said, I did, on how I acted. In the way I pronounce my french, or how I bit into a burger, in my hesitation to run that red light at 2am on a Friday night (but I always did anyways). So I thought that was how you would answer. You know, point out all the shitty things I do- how I swore too much, how I talked too much. Or maybe you were gonna b*tch at me about how I always cracked jokes about your girlfriend Constance Wilson’s nose too much, or how I should wear my seatbelt when I drive that fast, or tell me that I was “so godd*amn cynical” like my half-senial gran always did. But you didn’t. You said,
“That’s just it Lil. You didn’t do anything, you didn’t do anything at all.”
I never thought that someone could hate me so much for something that I didn’t do. I never thought the things I didn’t do mattered.
» Posted By Taylor K On 04.23.2012 @ 4:20 pm
The sound of your voice is all I want to hear, all day long. Speaking to me, singing to me, whispering in my ear, or yelling at me across oceans. Even if they terrible things. Even if the terrible tales, are the only things you have left to tell me.
» Posted By Taylor K On 04.21.2012 @ 11:49 pm
There are things I am certain of. They are the kinds of things that really everyone knows; the sky is blue, the grass is green, the sun rises in the east and sets in the west, and the longest word in the english language is pneumonoultramicroscopicsilicovolcanoconiosis. But the list of my certainties is far shorter than the list of all the things I don’t know. We use science to explain all these little atoms and particles that make us up to be what we’ve become, and to explain the world that we’re in and we use God to explain why people do right and wrong; to assure us there is meaning to our lives, that there is a place called ‘after this’, after this.
And science disproves religion, and the priests condemn the sinning scientists in their labs, and my best friend Alice’s family says the rosary every night before dinner, while my mother and I chew our cold food without saying one word. And all these sounds start to knit themselves together until it is a quilt of fractured nothingness. And I am uncertain if any of all of these things, mean anything at all.
» Posted By Taylor K On 04.21.2012 @ 8:20 pm
It was only a slight difference that gave him away. I suppose I could have let it slide, pretended not notice it. But I am a pessimist. I notice everything, and I never let it go. And it really is that one difference that makes all the difference, isn’t it?
» Posted By Taylor K On 04.19.2012 @ 7:47 pm
She flung the gaudy sunglasses into the back of the decrepit Volvo, and flashed her Firetruck Red No. 4 lips at me. Well, actually, there was no “No. 4” at the end of the name, it was really just “Firetruck Red” from some shi**y drug store on Fourth and Main. But she had always told me to put a “No. something” at the end of every beauty product. It made it sound “classier”. It did, I suppose. Within seconds of me clamping the sticky door shut, we were rocketing forward, straight through the crooked glowing stoplight. The cars honked but Sloan hardly even blinked, she hardly cared. Sloan had always made the rules, not followed them. She pushed the silky tangle of blonde hair from her eyes, and began to braid it, while she continued to steer with her bruised elbows.
“So, champ,” she grinned between mouthfuls of hair, and through her forearms, “you like adventures?”
» Posted By Taylor K On 04.18.2012 @ 3:19 pm
The girl with a pearl earring, the girl who’s existence remained confined within the walls of a silvery, slimy oyster. But her ears had the soft curves of a conch shells, and her eyes were as deep and wide as periwinkle seas, and the world hung off her her half parted lips, waiting to be dropped, to be discovered, or perhaps destroyed. The girl with the pearl earring, waited. Her lips parted but painted to be still, lingering on her only half-formed word.
» Posted By Taylor K On 04.17.2012 @ 8:36 am
I was never one to be tempted by their chiseled faces, perfect features, and Crest Whitening Strip smiles. Nor did I ever succumb to those pretty packaged lies they would use to lure me into their beds, that would allow them to gain access inside my flimsy lace underpants.
What enticed me, what captured my attention, were the ones that didn’t have to speak at all. The silent and almost invisible presence in a room full of people, spoke the loudest to me.
» Posted By Taylor K On 04.15.2012 @ 11:01 am
I always know when he was near. I could hear the rattle of spare change in his pocket. Sometimes, if I was quick, this gave me just enough time to duck into a class room, or run up the nearest stairwell. But usually, his Chuck Taylor’s caught up with me, or I got caught in the dirty smell of the cancer-stick hanging out the side of his crooked smile, or his gravelly baritone voice coaxed me back. And then of course, it was all down hill from there, there was no avoiding that steep drop.
But sh*t, the rush was unbelievable, and in that moment, I could make myself forgot what happened when I would hit the f*cking ground.
» Posted By Taylor K On 04.13.2012 @ 8:33 pm
When we were kids we jumped in puddles, we aimed to disturbed the small peaceful glass-like surface; so we could watch something so perfect explode, so we could feel the spray of pavement water dampen out corduroy pants and freckled skin. When we were kids we danced when there was no music playing, and our cheeks were pink and puckered with sunburn. When we were kids the whole world was no bigger than our own neighbourhood, our dreams soared as high as the vine-tangled elm tree that towered in my backyard, and our bicycle-wound induced tears were wiped dry by the soft hands of our mothers until we smiled again.
Now we wear expensive shoes that loathe the rain. We don’t dance, and no one sings. We wear make up to cover our imperfections, to perhaps create the illusion we are not who we are. The world is big, so big, that most people get lost in it because they’re not careful. And you are not one of those people, because you are always careful. Dreams are something that don’t exist even in the comfort of sleep anymore, and you don’t cry. You can’t cry. People might think you’re weak if you do.
» Posted By Taylor K On 04.11.2012 @ 7:27 am
Heartache. Why do they call it that? My heart doesn’t feel anything at all. It’s an organ. A bloody clump of tissue that pumps blood in and out and around.
You’re a headache, just a headache. A migraine maybe. Because my heart didn’t ‘ache’ when you went, when you left, when you disappeared. My head did. Does. It’s in a million tiny shards, and the sounds they made when they shattered still echoes in the cavernous spaces and corners in my head. In my mind. A mind ache.
And it didn’t- doesn’t even really ache. It throbs and spasms. It’s agony.
I am in agony.
Heartache is that contrived, over exaggerated term used by kids who think they know what it’s like to feel.
Me? I feel. I feel too much. I feel for you.
» Posted By Taylor K On 04.09.2012 @ 11:18 am
He’s a rainy day in the middle of March. I try to catch all of him but the harder I try to grasp him in my fingertips, the quicker he slips away.
» Posted By Taylor K On 03.31.2012 @ 10:44 am
How can I capture all those luminescent fragments, and keep them safe? My mind isn’t safe, it’s a chamber of unused or forgotten rooms. Things get lost and the wrong things get found. The darkness takes up the most space in the cavernous pits of my mind, I can’t make room. Oh, how can I make room? Your light is too slight to hold back all my dark.
» Posted By Taylor K On 03.29.2012 @ 4:15 am
I could feel you drifting away from me. Like Huck Finn, floating away on his make shift raft down the Mississippi river, until you was just a spot on murky horizon, and then nothing at all. I always expected you to come back to me. Huck came back home, didn’t he? Or maybe he didn’t. I never finished it. Maybe he drowned on his stupid little raft. Why’d he leave anyways? He had it pretty good, right? Why didn’t he take me with him? Maybe I wanted to float down the Mississippi river, and go on some big adventure. Don’t you get lonely? Maybe Huck wanted to be alone. Or maybe he just didn’t want me.
» Posted By Taylor K On 03.26.2012 @ 5:18 pm
Carefully, I peeled back the the blood soaked gauze around his back, fold by fold. As I came to the last layer, I held my breath and braced myself for what may lay underneath the rust stained fabric. Axel inhaled sharply as I removed the last of the gauze, ripping part of his skin and leaving behind a sticky residue. The gash was deep; you could still see the ivory of his rib bone peeking beneath the ripped layers of skin and tissue. But that’s not what worried me, what made me gasp.
“What?!” Axel moaned, “How bad is it?” My hands quivered over the black scales, that had started to line the wound and make its way up his spine.
» Posted By Taylor K On 03.24.2012 @ 10:10 am
Pack up your bags, and toss them in the trunk. We don’t have time to wait, or to even look back. Step on the gas, or spread those damned wings boy, and get out of here as fast as you can.
» Posted By Taylor K On 03.22.2012 @ 7:23 pm
He could fix anything and everything in that rotting, decrepit house. Give him a hammer and a sunny day, and within hours whole rooms would transform. The yellowing, peeling wallpaper would be gone, and the baseboards painted. The rooms lost their scent of dust and decaying clothes and instead began to smell like fresh cut wood and drying paint. The weeds were pulled, flowers bloomed, and the porch stairs didn’t creak unsteadily whenever I tread upon them. The windows were washed, the whole house illuminated like a lamp, and warm from the afternoon sun. He laboured, and repaired the entirety of that home with his rough mocha-coloured hands. He was a handyman, a fixer. A man who came with scotch tape, and pieced back together the broken. Perhaps thats why he was so drawn to me. I was much better at breaking things. Everything.
But he refused to let me break, held me together in those warm brown eyes. Whenever I faltered, he only smiled, “I can fix that.”
» Posted By Taylor K On 03.21.2012 @ 9:29 pm
The duration of the car ride consisted of either me pretending to sleep while Radiohead blasted through my earphones, or Monty nervously tapping on the steering wheel while we were at a stop light. Every once and awhile the Oldsmobile would cough or sputter when he stepped on the gas too hard, but it was relatively quiet. Uncomfortable.
I couldn’t see his face under his shaggy brown hair, but by the way he grasped the clutch so tightly, I knew he was nervous.
“Where are we going, Monty?” I asked quietly. It began to rain. He turned on the windshield wipers.
“Are we there yet?” The rain was coming down harder, the windshield getting blurrier and murkier. He rolled down the windows and stuck his head out the side, to see the road. The rain was warm, spring showers. I wait until I was completely drenched, until I was completely clean, before I said,
“Monty? I’m sorry.” He didn’t turn to look at me. Simply grasped my left hand, and stroked it, gently.
“No,” he whispered softly, “no you’re not. But you will be,”
» Posted By Taylor K On 03.14.2012 @ 9:58 pm
And from that moment, he knew that there was nothing after his last heartbeat. There was nothing left after anyone’s last heartbeat, last breathe, last pulse of brain activity. He was only six. But he knew.
And it was not because his mother was lying at the bottom of that wooden box at the bottom of that deep dark hole. It was not because the priest was red-faced and stuttering, drunk off the holy wine. And it was not because Celia hadn’t shown up, didn’t hold his tiny hand in hers.
It was because the old lady in the third last pew, with the odd shaped hat, sneezed.
And no one said, “Bless you.”
» Posted By Taylor K On 03.12.2012 @ 9:04 pm
Back To Stats Page
He had always stressed the importance of how the glass must go in the blue bin, separate from the plastic, and no mixing paper and cardboard with either of these items. I had never been a big environmentalist, but he was so passionate about saving the planet, that I tried to be too. Because, well, I wasn’t really passionate about anything. Except for, well, him. But that’s not something you tell other people, nor that they wanted to hear. So I adopted this same devotion he had to helping the world; preserving the dying and almost extinct species, protecting the rain forests, spreading awareness about global warming, driving a silly looking battery powered car, save the whales! and all that sh*t.
Now every time I finish a plastic water bottle, I toss it out my car window. Some times, I turn on the shower and just let the water run for hours, without ever getting in. And every once and awhile, I take one of the glass wine bottles that I had emptied the night prior, and smash it all over the road.
It’s silly, and childish of me, really. To take my feelings out on the earth. But it’s my only way to hurt him. To somehow ruin everything he stood for.
Or perhaps it was the only thing that made me hurt less.
» Posted By Taylor K On 03.11.2012 @ 10:17 pm