Your words are black

Tar and sticking to you chin

It devours all in its slimy path

Staining all who can hear

They dribble and drip and coil downwards

On the grounds they fall they crawl onward

Poison from mouths of those once trusted

It starts a war

This crashing, numbing, cold and hot feeling

Violence isn't the answer, but oh is it tempting

You move people 

Through hate and rhetoric

Go hang off the words of the media electric

Ecentric, eclectic, all words too sweet

To describe the ringing your voice causes 

Pollution, like light in a dark night

It blots, it seeths, it covers and writhes 

I won't let me fall into your tub of lies

So go 

With your sickly sweet smells

With your teeth black as night 

And wild eyed stared

I need you not, not now, not ever

After all

For what it's worth, to me you were just a sperm donor

His kiss tasted of cigarettes. Sharp, like a spike through the taste buds, and there was a spark that went through me from that one contact. There was a sick thrill, a thought that I liked that taste, even though I knew it was bad and wrong. We weren't right for each other. That's what I'll tell myself to this day; that we were just too wild together, untamed. Like his hair. Or his eyes. Those sparking, electric orbs of obsidian gray, offset by hair that went in every which way, and skin that was so sun scorched that he felt warm to the touch always. His calloused hands were something I hadn't even known I wanted to feel, it caused my skin to break out into goosebumps that were far too unfamiliar.

Bryce brought out the best and the worst in me. The needy me, the one that wanted to contact him all the time, to feel that uneven surface on his forearms, or to see the black grease after he got home from work—covered in motor oil and with that lopsided grin. I had some of the best days of my life during that time. From going out onto the lake in the middle of the night, watching a show of falling stars light up the black velvet of the sky, to climbing onto the very top of the rafters of Mount Bonnell, with splinters digging into my hand the smell of a coming thunderstorm filling my nose. Wet and wonderful. Some of the worst days of my life as well. Coming over to his house, seeing him high off his ass on weed and him assuring me over and over he was fine as he stumbled down the hallway.

We never said it, either. That one word. Four letters that would have put me to peace, would have mended some of those broken fences, patched them up so that our heat would stop escaping. It almost happened, once, in the back of the park, sitting near the stream with the grass up to our ears and listening to the bullfrogs. It was a date, or day, I don't even know anymore, we had ridden down in his ratty old car that made an odd gurgling noise. The blistering sauna of that summer made our hair stick to our foreheads; but I didn't mind, we lived in Texas, after all. My stomach had knotted and twisted until I felt sick, but he stopped, paused, with his eyes narrowed and that wrinkled W in his forehead he got when he was deep in thought. Then all my Bryce did was put his forehead to mine, that simple motion setting off an unease deep in my throat. I can't remember the argument we got into later that night, but I do remember not talking to him for over four months. That was torture. A hole in my heart that couldn't be stitched up but only covered with thick, tough tissue akin to a scar.

Then the words. He was moving. Across state and into Houston--with all its flooding and off putting smells. I would lose him for good. In a way, it was a relief. I could breathe again. That heavy sweater that draped on me like a cloud, during a Texas heatwave, was lifted off and air had never tasted so sweet. But, to this day, a year later, I wonder if he would have stayed if I had just bridged that gape. If I had just asked “Do you love me?” would those eyes have turned back on me, would the world have stilled again, and would the boat that had been pitching since that first day we met in Freshman year in High School come to peaceful shores?  

Waking up is hard to do. Sleep, a wonderful thing, is difficult to let go of when you just want five more minutes. Then five more, then another, and another, until you wonder why you're sleeping so much. Sometimes, it's a good reason. It's that you didn't sleep at all the night before because your sleeping medications are starting to not work-again-or that your cat kept you awake by meowing all night, or that you were worried, or that... you're just tired. So tired. Or, it could be something different, more ominious. 

That's what I remember. Waking up was difficult then, there. My eyelids were like lead. They were heavy, as if each lash were held by a solid weight that kept them shut. Glue, or when I had pink eye when I was six, might be a more apt description. I don't know. I just know that it felt wrong. My whole body was sick. I felt so... bad. Like a train had hit me. Full speed. No stopping. And had kept going with me under the tracks. That kind of waking up you wonder what the hell happened the night-or in this case hours-before. You might not want to know, you might, but there's a nagging. 

My eyes had finally opened, begrudingly, and I was met with the most horrendous sight of my young eleven years. White. Nothing but white. Even as the lights above had been dimed, for my comfort evidently, it was nothing but blinding, searing, annoying clean egg shell. The window next to me had the blinds drawn up and tight, again supposedly for my comfort-sometimes patients didn't like to go in during the day and wake up early in the morning-and there were tubes running along the wall next to my face. The world was too blurry to make out much else. Other than what I felt. I felt my head pounding, the sudden bare cushion of the Sylvester pillow behind me, the cool rush of the needle in my arm, and... gauze. Lots of guaze. 

My mom was making a fuss next to me. I could hear that. But, for some reason, my right ear was silent. Muffled. Was something covering it? Why? That hadn't been talked about. And if it had, I hadn't been there. Then again, I was ten, what would I have said? Leave my skull alone? Fat lot of good that would have done. I remember when my eyes finally focused that I was sick. Not sick sick, not like when you have the flu, the kind of sick you are when you are heavily dosed on something. So this is what Morphine felt like. It felt like a wool blanket over your face. You weren't really numb. I could still feel the pain resonating from my face, but, it was far away. So far away. I was drifting on some foriegn cloud. 

"Mom...?"

"Shhhh, honey, the doctor says you shouldn't talk. You'll open the sutures and... move your feeding tube." Funny. I had seen the feeding tube before the surgery. I had thought it was awfully long. So that's what that lump was. No wonder I was having a hard time swallowing. 

"My head hurts." 

"Go back to sleep." 

"Don't wanna..." But I did. It wasn't me that wanted to go back under though, it was that pesky sleep. Sometimes waking up is hard. Especially when you just had a tumor removed from your face. In that moment, I think I deserved five more minutes. 

I miss them, you know? Miss what? Ha, miss all those yellow papers, square and sticky, glued momentairly to my door, the floor, the couch, the fridge, your forehead, maybe the bedframe if you were feeling frisky. Funny thing, those, I used to get annoyed at the amount of waste--that and I used them for writing out chapters. You threw them around like confetti. Now, I sometimes just stare at the white space of the fridge door and wonder where they'd all gone. Did I throw them all out? How unfortunate. 

I still buy your favorite yogurt, you know. That tangy shit you got, the cheap brand that was runny on the top with a strange yellow tinge, and a smell that made even the cat cringe. He wouldn't, doesn't, touch the stuff. I tried to get you to try my favorite greek brand, but you didn't want to. You were happy in your ignorance, you said, if you tried something new that tasted better you'd have less money at the end of the month. I wonder how much longer I'll buy it for. I ate it once, never again--didn't get off the toilet for a full hour and a half. 

I still listen to your cd you left here, you know. Which cd? The dubstep one you made. Bunch of noise, can't make any sense out of it. I hated that you would play it all hours of the day, I hated that it mashed up my favorite songs by my favorite artists with overly loud and trembling beats. It made my head hurt. Still does. It's just nice to touch something that used to be solely yours. I might burn it later this week, still deciding if I want to or not. The smell might not be worth it. Then again, it's glare isn't worth it either. 

I still love you, you know. Despite myself. Despite your quirks, your flaws, your angsty ways, and your god damn need for sex after work--good luck getting motor oil out of my blouse, you ass. I love that grin, lopsided as it is. The ropy build that is you, the scraggly hair, the facial hair that I hate when we kissed, the spark of those obsidian eyes, and that sun scorched skin. I hated your cut off, hick jean shorts, I hated your smell after you had smoked some weed, I hated your messy ways, I hated how you never said the 'L' word nearly enough, and I hated how you could make me happy just by patting my back. I wonder when I'll get it over it. 

Can't go back though. Can't go back to the yellow of the papers, of the film on your yogurt, the yellow shine of your stupid cd, or the yellow shirt you would always have on under your mechanics uniform. Can never look at that particular shade the same again. 

I remember it well. That old guitar with no strings that I found just sitting there, by the dumpster, perfectly good just worn for wear; I remember thinking it was beautiful. Why would anyone just toss such a wonderful thing aside like that? Minus the bridge pins and some nice cords it was still functional, no holes or punctures and some hand painted lines tracing its way around the acoustic pit. I remember thinking that as it sat there it was staring at me, just as I was it, and when I picked it up it just felt right. Light and yet reassuring, it fit in my hand as if crafted for me and only me. I had never had a guitar neck feel so narrow and comforting for my tiny hands.

It came with me everywhere. When we moved to a new house I remember coming across it in the corner of my room where it had laid nearly forgotten. I had taken care of the strings and pins, and shined it up, painted over the old work and gave it my own flair. It had morphed into a part of me, staying there, and yet again when I picked it up and strummed a few lines it felt like it was connecting to a deeper part of me. It came with us during the move and would for many more to come.

It’s seen my highs, my lows, my goods and my bads. Sitting there, in a corner with its shined surface-never allowed to collect dust-it watched as I worked on novel after novel in my early career; just trying to get something published. Just trying to let the words come out right… just trying to allow myself the freedom of thought to let what I had in my head come down onto paper. It watched my relationships form. It watched me be happy and loving… and heartbroken and bitter the next. It was played when I needed the strength to go on, when doubt clouded my heart and my head, and I would sing wordless songs that had no rhyme or reason to them. But, it was also there when my first work got published and I was finally starting on the right path. It watched me laugh, play video games until the wee hours of the morning, watched me sit on the computer for hours on end with wrists aching as my stories poured out of me.

Even now, as I write this, with the stringless guitar in the next room, it ushers me on in silent praise. It’s like an old friend or grandfather. Never chiding, never vicious, and yet stern and omnipresent at the same time; I know most people won’t get my attachment to it or the personality that it possesses.

Even now I remember it well. The first time that I saw it and the first time that I felt like everything would be okay. To the person that left it there for me to find, the person that changed my life around for the better, I thank you. The old guitar, with Premier flaking off the head and the chipped tuning pins, has floated tune after tune into my now peaceful mind.