February 2010
Here we are playing games with our lives. Put your liver to the test, drive drunk on ice. We’ll grow up right someday if we make it out alive. Let’s get married, a convenience of loneliness, and just laugh together, don’t leave me ever. I’ll clean up your puke on Sunday mornings if you hold my hand on Saturday nights. Be my best friend forever at such great heights.
Words- you can’t take them back. You can try. You can beg, plead, apologize but once they’ve been said that’s it. They’re out there, settling in hearts, hurting feelings, breaking down things you’ve built. I could wish to do everything different but the fountains all dried up. And you remember everything.
January 2010
http://www.formspring.me/CandyMazzoni
RIP JD SALINGER.
I used to get comfort in knowing you were out there JD, that somewhere out there the man who birthed Holden Caulfield was still keeping strong in his seclusion. I hope they don’t bother with flowers. Cause who wants flowers when you’re dead? Nobody.
I swear I saw the light on in your attic when I walked by the other day. I wonder if our unfinished game of monopoly is still suspended in time up there, I wonder if there’s still a stain on that creme rug from when we took our first sips of 21 from your father’s ancient MGD. I tripped on that cracked concrete like I did so many times in my uniform oxfords, all scuffed and caked with...
I don’t know who I am. I’m a cynical optimist, a drunk sxe, a modest slut.
My hands are so capable, my heart so unbreakable. I’ve got this brain in my head and I know enough to know half the things I think are worth the time. I can laugh at just about anything, I can fit with just about anyone. And if I have to do this all on my own, well I’m not so scared to be alone. My father can forget me, my friends can abandon me, everyone else can pacify me. It...
The best part is realizing it’s not a need, it’s not even a want. It’s just a bad habit and it’s not that hard to break.
These are the quietest of nights. These 3am hours spent weighed down by bedroom walls, bare feet on bathroom tile as I watch the mirror and try to catch the lie in my smile. I can’t bear the silence, it’s too heavy on my chest. And the breaking daylight is shedding light on all my failures and missteps; the things I’ve ruined, the people I’ve pushed so far I couldn’t...
“In the end it’s just you with your memories and your scars
Fall on me if...”
– Matt Nathanson, Illusions
I live in lyrics and words, like somehow the right construction of the perfect combination of them could make everything work. If I could get them to fit just right, maybe it’d be the convincing I can never manage with my mouth.
It gets tiring to be the good one. To be the bigger person. To take the high road. To do it all alone. To be the fucked over, to be the forgiving. To blow it off, to take it in stride, to forget. My heart is all stitched together with threads of ‘I’m sorry’ and ‘you didn’t deserve that’ and ‘your day is gonna come’. It’s not longer enough.
My...
None of us are the monsters other people will try to make us when our fuck ups are spotlighted center stage of the social circuit. I know we’re grasping bottles and behind wheels and cashing checks but we’re still just kids. This is all kid shit. We all share the middle name mistake.
My sister has my laugh; my wheeze and cackle. My sister has my eyes, wide and amused and the saddest of sad sometimes. My sister tells stories like I do, flailing limbs and exaggerated faces and side notes that trail longer than the tale itself.
My sister has my hands. My stubby, tiny, capable hands of a little girl who’s been carrying her own weight since the moment she realized it was...
“Fathers, be good to your daughters. Daughters will love like you do.”
– John Mayer, Daughters
The problem with girls like me, girls like us, is that we’re not happy in the sunshine. We’d much rather be walking in the rain, chasing the tornado or braving the hurricane. We’d rather be dragging our pant legs in puddles and sifting through rubble and remains after the storm has left us in it’s wake. No matter what we say, no matter how much we insist we’re just...
“I always believed it was the things you don’t choose that makes you who...”
– Patrick Kenzie, Gone Baby Gone
I’m having fun and meeting faces but at the end of the day, I want to be known for more than just my fragile feelings and drunk mistakes.
I’m not asking for everything, I am not trying to ring this life dry. All I want is a home of my own, with hardwood floors and high ceiling that will echo the sounds of little feet pattering around. All I want is someone to laugh with, to cry with, someone to be the definition of forever. I want glances with no criticism, mistakes with no yelling, doors with no slamming. That is all I want...
What about me makes me disposable? Is it something I can’t see, that makes everyone grow so tired of me? You’ll pick boys over me, they’ll pick girls over me. I swear I’d change it if I could. I’d say I’m sorry a million times, I’d do anything, just for someone to look at me and see.
I’m getting exactly what I asked for. Years spent wishing for...
I miss my friend.
I want to believe in karma, that it is God’s way of balancing the constantly tipping scales. But I am just a heathen, no baptismal gown for me, who am I to ask God for anything? Besides the malicious intent itching at my fingers lately is just begging for release. Where would that leave me?
The sincerity in that smile could kick life back into that faulty device in my chest. Part of me...