I took a knife and cut out her eye, I took it home and watched it wither and die

Femme Fatale (The Girls I Have Known) by Marlowe Tatiana Granados

---AN EXCERPT

....She got up from the bed and gazed at her reflection, her eyes were framed with panda-like black. There could be no explanation as to why; she slept more often than not. Sleeping was the only thing that she believed her mind could be silenced by, or at least her body. The death of thought. Her thoughts sometimes seeped through her down-feathered comas, the monsters under the bed. The worst nights were ones spent alone and anxiety that grew like a vine at the pit of her throat released its chlorophyll into her dreams.
She pulled on her clothes that lay in strange corners of the room (they had no feasable route in ending up where they did). She sat on the bed and lit a cigarette to calm her shaking organs. Some moments of the day she felt like dying, like this one. She had never thought of herself as suicidal but immensely morbid. She could never do it herself, though if Death had decided to take her she would have no resistance. Even as a child she imagined her funeral, the little cards that her friends would have printed their speeches on and what adjectives would be used in her obituary. She thought of the committee of close friends who would be appointed to lament quirky stories and misadventures. Death; her own death did not scare her. It was the death of others that planted fear of being left behind in a world that no longer seemed viable.
She finished the last of her cigarette and put on her shoes. She made it a point to never leave too early in the morning. The light was too honest and dissolved all ideals. Morning light revealed secrets, the stains on your jacket and the bruise on your cheek. Night was like a veil over one's own reality, the possibility of becoming who you wish to be.
She shut Stephen's door quietly and heard it lock behind her. It was rapturously windy when she went outside. She walked to the subway and ran in the train as it was due to depart. Public transportation fascinated her. It was Civility's own twisted joke. An experiment that illustrated what was socially acceptable. What stopped any of these people from killing? How many people had sex this morning? How many were married and did not wear a ring? She was always taken back when she was approached by someone; to her it seemed so illicit.
Laurel entered the café to see Esmé. Laurel had always made her wait as she never really knew how to estimate a journey's length.
Esmé always appeared like a product of pampering and excess time on one's hands. Blow dried hair and chipless nails, individually separated eyelashes and a suspicious tan. To Laurel, Esmé was enviable. She was the perfect chemistry of someone who had enough discipline to know where she was going in life and a girl who in all forms was "fun"....

sally cinnamon

alice was a strange and useless type of girl. serpentine and waiflike she drafted through the halls of parties like the wind. somewhat noticeable and existing from out of nowhere. she walked the streets on her way home in the end tails of autumn, the cold numbing her limbs into moveable bits of marble, marching on toward her house. when it was late and she knew no one was awake she walked in the middle of the roads taking her time, almost dancing to the emptiness. she enjoyed the feeling of being alone. she enjoyed the empty road as she knew for that moment in the dark of winter this road was hers, for this moment it belonged to her. for this time, everything could be her way. her skin would be dry as she arrived home, ears aching from the change in temperature. her body emitting the cold air as if an extention of outdoors, and finally as the leftover haze took possession over her she would laugh at the phrases she pulled together in her head, tragic and nonsensical. the street outside her window lay before her electricity-less. dark and lonely as it had been before. it made little to no effort in becoming approachable. the steely exteriors were hell bent on being unforgettable. she lay in her bed for a while before falling to sleep. watching shadows play amongst her ceiling, no thoughts of time went through her head, no ideas of abstraction, just warmth of the body. this was the time she could never take outside of these unearthly hours. the mutual discreetness of four in the morning. the personification of herself in a time. perhaps if this hour would take course for an extension of time she could understand more. her actions became second nature, without thought or remorse, this hour would nod in empathy. this hour would understand. only few were able to comprehend this time of night. the disturbed and desolate. 

excerpt

oh, oh, ohhh

the night came down on our throats like a knife---bloodrush. 

blood became like oil, valuable and easily set alight. the crux, the crux, the crux, 

in amounts we've measured with such anticipation, we've timed and formulated. 

the roots of our teeth soon shake at the sight of your shadow, 

ghost of a shadow of yours. Still

lingering in the halls of the apartment, 

moments we would otherwise forget still mask the routine smells of the kitchen,

the bedroom, 

the bath. 

Down your throat through your nose out your ears. Familiar notes on the baby grand do not reckon recollection. you tip-toe-ing 

down the road with a hand full of all-purpose-cleaners,

 you wrapped in scarves upon scarves trying to set yourself

aflame by the embers that do no justice 

to your intent. 

Nor I, yes sir. 

New year's still comes by like a one-night-stand-in, 

all slinky and come-hither leaning on the door frame offering up absolution. 

i throw a tantrum in the middle of the floor, reeling, wriggling, screaming,

t(ee)ring, t(ehrr)ing up cheats sheets and 

other tearable objects of fury. 

You with your commonplace smirk

do nothing but sprawl across the bed as if nothing happens, as if you cannot hear

hello sadness,

"bonjour tristesse...Tu es inscrite dans les yeux que j'aime"

ode

In a wildly romantic and childish fling of writing I've been trying to get myself to write something about the end of summer. In many ways I wish I had the ability to write down everything, categorized and catalogued. However, I am a private person, mostly and a lot of things never come to public light. Writing is funny that way, because most of the time you write what you know. Sometimes it's not autobiographical, sometimes it's half-fiction.

Summer.
Something about the heat and the sun regards you to become more beautiful. Somehow it's like your entire body tries to burst through your pores. Like the flush in your cheeks, and the rush of blood to your face. Your tanned limbs and freckled forearms have natural kissability, as if dusted with gold. Your face gleams from the sweat and shimmers like the mist on the trees in the early morning. There's never anything else to do. So we bum around stoops and make lists of laws to break. The simple fact that you have nothing to do tomorrow, procures the reason why you're out tonight. That's why you stay up in the park daring the sky with your stamina. You sit in your apartment all day long, lying on the sofa cringing at moments that slip through your mind like sand, because in fact, if they were ever-present you could no longer dance on tables and urinate in people's gardens out of sheer self-consciousness. Cheers, another round for the ladies. You dumb yourself down, because no one so intelligent could be so brave. You love like no other, a breeze passing through a field, carressing stems and naming every thistle. In the heat of July we rubbed rosemary through our fingers till it stained our forefingers to our pinkies. We kept ice in storage and you wore your crown around the house. In the night we slapped our thighs from invisible bugs and smoked out a pipe like a chimney with dreams of herringbone and the tweed England. As summer comes to a timely close, the weather seems to not want to let off, the afternoons are still spent taping dark scarves to the bedroom window, refusing to let the sun come in and infect our murky rooms with its pervasive heat. We also dreamed of France with its blue waters and low pressure systems, we wished for blisters on our feet from the ancient uneven walkways.

Early in the morning I can smell it. The autumn persuades summer with its colours and attractive dance, in the morning you can almost feel it. Though the salty residue of summer is still strong on your tongue. The rotting crabapples fall in piles, our hair will get darker and our faces lighter. The remorse will be wiped away till next summer. We bargained to keep our secrets close.

We will need to find suitable partners to get us through the winter, perhaps they will have no idea about our defamatory pursuits, and burdening addictions. Perhaps with fall we turn new leaves. Reminder: we are not trees, tigers never lose their stripes.

excerpt II

Like an alley cat he wandered through districts and airports not lost, not found, aimless, just to pass the time. He belonged to no one and nothing, not even the world. He was born out of thin air, an eternal orphan. He wanted to find an existence, an existence that you could list, an existence that when you wrote down nouns and activities, your life was that. Autumn, sitting on stoops, staying in bed. Just like that. An existence where an idea of life could form. He had love, that was the only thing he could not ever get rid of. To exercise it would be dangerous. But he still held hands. He drifted through the world in this manner, promiscuous in only a sense. Never letting his love overcome him, it was smart and it was safe. It's always good to use protection.

an excerpt.

with just a push and a shove he was gone, my best friend down a cliff and i, remorseless, stood there grinning.

My stomach rumbled and shook and my eyes were crazed, light leaks blurred my vision. we used to kiss and bathe in the sea, we made love to the seafloor and showed it our ways. it scolded and told us to get lost. told us to stop drinking that goddamn dirty water. it influenced our language, made the words we said come out in grotesque and sacrilegious shapes. we moved on to the forests, the deep and dark forests. murky and musical, the leaves rustled and sticks would snap, it was like the music people got on to. we smoked the wild flowers and took off our clothes just to be closer to the earth. our arms freckled and our faces darkened. we laid down the law. we puked the city out of our lungs, our pores filled with pollen. we were content in the wildness, the natural mess of it all. we contructed weapons out of rocks and wore feathers 'round our necks, we forecasted our zodiac fortunes in the stars. the forest was our summer love, comfortable and always nurturing, we nuzzled our heads in its breast. autumn came and the forest showed signs of disdain, a lack of commitment. it shed its skin, and its love for us.
winter came overnight and our hair crystallized. our skin glistened and emitted glittering ice, we were beautiful and could not feel a thing. we awoke in the clouds, feather light. the sky was kind, she offered a chance at redemption. we always escape through a technicality, rightfully so, we never did kill spiders or put our elbows on the table. we moved underground, too tired to lose the sin on our trail, we kept our feet dirty. the youth of our days was a disease, preventing wisdom of age to prevail. we kept it short, and we always won.

because love is like a mystery we always are on a unconscious search of something, a sliver, a trace, the tracks it's left leaving your house in the twilight. we fight we fight we fight, and the instruments still play. a kiss is just a kiss we are hungry for, to be nourished at least for a little while. some kisses mean nothing and sometimes they mean everything. it's the dangerous dance we learn to step, quick quick and slow. this is not a diary from me, but a request for those i know who seek love or try to deal with it. some fight and fight to keep it, some grow it in the back of their minds to comfort them, at least to have someone beside them at the lonliest lows. some have it and are content, but it is kept at a mild temperature to keep it from blowing up or cooling down. the boys forever will chase the girls after school. it's fine. that is how it is.

and when it's quiet and the lights in houses and apartment 406 is still dark you know you are alone in the morning that still feels like night, but can never qualify as night. the sun creeps into the sky more east than here. the sky looks like a velvet curtain, a blanket over those who can sleep at night. but not me. so here we are, me and three, four, five in the morning. we can't sleep because we have occupations to attend to. the air is cold but it hasn't been inhaled yet. this time of twilight makes me honest, it makes me scared, but i like it.


songs for when you can't sleep: going out when it's warm at night