The River Styx But No Balls

I’m lucky, yes
lucky to have
a backbone to hold up
my waste product.

Like a coat-rack, I
hang my sins on
this phallic symbol;
piling high my late
nights to early mornings.

My moans, groans, and
desperate phone
calls, dated letters
written & received

Journal entries, cheaper
than therapy, right
along with my sexuality…
under, over and
in between empty
bottles. a subtle stain of
So Co or Jack.

Cigarette buds,
dutch guts and little
happy footballs

Each night pulling
Sins over my head

another pound another
Contribution

I wish I could control my heart beat sometimes. Perhaps then I would be more conspicuous with my emotions. Like when my ex-boyfriend tells me he likes this girl and that she's "making me crazy". I wish my heart would listen when I helled for it to stop pounding, because "I am not in love with him anymore!" And when he appologizes for bringing it up as if it were understood that I would be hurt by it, I feel something awkward rising in my throat. I don't want a "we" but I don't want a "them" either. I want him to always be mine, and me to always be his, but for us to never be eachothers.

August '06

You unwrapped our package that night
Like a child I wept before you
Sore and confused

We were a pair, a package deal
Two-for-one, we were a set
Until brotherhood became incest
And tackles turned to resentment

Without a mother to berate
We shook our heads at one another
And I was to discover
You’d rather crucify then lie.

Since then, we have been
Beaten down and
Lost and found parts of ourselves.

Yet I’m still hidden, still forbidden.
And after lust, collecting dust.

Lira E. Skenderi

I must be the only working student
Not looking forward to the summer

Definitely not the unbearable heat
Humidity, frizzy hair
And all with no one to help you along.

Definitely not the lonesome nights
Ending with the arrival of the glowing, tan
Faces of my sisters’, returning from a party.

Definitely not the awkwardness of my
Pale nearly-nude body, like a badly-rolled joint
Somebody please, smoke me up, smoke me up
And let my numbing remains drift away into the night breeze.

Eat, Sleep, Flee.

i can’t stop
won’t stop eating
sleeping
fleeing from :

the food, the chocolate, the carrots even,
are out to get me…

my jaws, my saliva, my taste
are collaboratively working to destroy me…

and my bed is
a prison, is a hole, is a box
and my bed is collapsing on me.

then the food, the chocolate, even the carrots again
(They’re just out to get me)

Then, the lock
and the rug
and the toilet
are welcoming
in my erasing of indulgence

my body, my will, my discipline
have given up on me.

and I’m left
in this prison, in this hole, in this box
with no choice but to
eat
sleep
and flee.

Unable to apologize for
The size of the print or
The contents within

She does not hang (?)
-------------------------
It's a mammal thing
A pattern you slide
In and out of

A thing since cavemen and hunting

It's an empty feeling
This struggle to deal with and
The concealing of an

Unstable state of mind or
Understanding of time. and the
Events that bring forth biting
Resentment

Not only just, but
So much more, and
what the French call
nostalgie

Unable to apologize for
The size of the print or
The contents within

She does not hang (?)
-------------------------
It's a mammal thing
A pattern you slide
In and out of

A thing since cavemen and hunting

It's an empty feeling
This struggle to deal with and
The concealing of an

Unstable state of mind or
Understanding of time. and the
Events that bring forth biting
Resentment

Not only just, but
So much more, and
what the French call
nostalgie

It's sort of strange looking back on diary entries from the seventh grade or something. It's strange because one of two reasons. Either you've changed so much that you barely can accept that the person you see in the mirror every day wrote the words and thought the thoughts or felt the feelings, or because you've barely changed and it's scary. I found something today that I had written in seventh grade about a boy I hardly even know but was convinced he was more than met the eye. It's strange because a lot of what I wrote applies today or once applied. Anyway, some of it, too, is lot more raw and honest than I could probably ever write now. So, in a sense, I've become my own role model.
“I compare myself to a rain drop. 'I've been fallin' like the rain. You've got your umbrella in my way' It's a song. I am just like a rain drop. I'm falling faster and faster and any second I may hit the ground. I want to keep falling, I'm afraid of being caught by an umbrella. I'm afraid that the smooth fall will hurt me. I'm afraid that in the end, I will fall onto the ground and splash and be destroyed. I'm afraid that I will end up in a puddle of lonely, lost raindrops.”
I go on to explain how I had had a dream. Veronica had bought me a huge plastic sign, it said “love”. It was red. It looked all bubbly, like those bubble letters that girls write in. Everyone started laughing. I got so upset and started thinking about my parents. I kicked the sign and it broke. It shattered on to the ground. I fell just like the pieces and started weeping. Then I got up, trying to ignore the harsh and piercing laughs. I started running to the girls' bathroom. “As I turned the corner, something caught me. I had this feeling like I had finally fallen in my place. Like a piece to a puzzle. I just fit in the person's arms. It was him. I saw in his eyes, the most comforting look i had ever seen. It just told me that it liked me so much and that i was accepted by it. He held me close to him and I just held on to him so tight and just cried. It wasn't one of those loud cries. It was so quiet and peaceful, almost silent. I cried because I was afraid. It was like I had been taken out of a really dark and scary world and had been put back into the light, in the sunshine. I cried over all the misery I had felt before. I cried because I felt ... loved and I was scared by it.
Sometimes when I walk through the halls, I feel like I'm being watched by everyone. I just want to creep into a little dark corner and go unnoticed. I want to hide in the shadows and be forgotten. Left alone. I hear, sometimes, that someone likes me. It really makes me curious. What they see in me that I don't see in myself. I'm afraid that someone will look at me and accept and adore everything about me and feel for me exactly what I feel for them. But most of all, I'm afraid that someone will love me more than I can ever love them.

I hardly will let people know some things about me. It's like I have this limit of letting other people have knowledge of me. All my life I've tried to be anything but predictable. I've tried to put on that happy face and be someone, someone that everyone can sit and watch. I feel like I've been entertaining full-time all my life. Whenever there are other people in a room with me, I feel so awkward. Once they leave I'm happy and relieved. I can finally be myself. I wish I could think and act like my real self around him. I wish he really did know me. But I'm too afraid. I'm always afraid.”

It's almost like in seventh grade, I knew exactly what was going to happen in my life for the next few years. I knew exactly the kind of people that were going to affect me and how I would deal with it. But I don't think I could have ever imagined the intensity of the experiences and feelings. However, at that time, it seems I spent more time thinking about the unfortunate things in life, which I was only getting a tiny taste of then. What I never expected was that the gray areas would be such a textured gray, such an undefinable gray. What I could never have expected was to be in two places at once, to be living two lives at one time as one person.

“ I threw out my clock today, because we no longer understood each other.
It’s ticking was unbearable. It was digital.”
These are not my words. I can’t write like that. I mean, I may have
similar thoughts; at least I know what the words mean and when I read them I
know that there is sometimes truth to them. But I don’t live in that world.
The world where digital clocks tick and don’t understand you. In my
world, manual clocks tick and neither digital nor manual ones are capable of
understanding.
These are not my words. They are the words of Abigail Wells. I used to
call her Abby. Anyone that was close to her would. And I was close to her.
Or at least I used to think that I had been, until I found her journal in
my room at my parents house last week. The house I used to live in when I
was young and thought I was in love with Abigail Wells. We dated for ...
who knows ... three years? On and off. You know how it is. It was always
different excuses to cover up all the same reasons. Reasons that, if we
were to have gone through divorce, would have been titled “irreconcilable
differences”. But that couldn’t ever come close to summarizing those three
years with Abby. I guess it never does though. Not if someone like Abby is
involved.
She was stubborn, determined, and at times manipulative. But, for the most
part she was emotional, confused and surprisingly fragile. You can imagine
how these characteristics would have made a relationship difficult.
I remember it like it was yesterday. I remember just the way she smelled
and my favorite things about her body. I remember her favorite earrings
that she tended to forget on my bedside table. She would take them off so
we wouldn’t crush them. I remember the bracelet that her father gave her,
which would also be placed on the bedside table next to the earrings. I
remember watching her sleep; her breasts rising slowly and smoothly and then
falling again. She had the most perfect breasts I’d ever seen. They fit
perfectly in my hand; not too small, not too big. I remember how
unbelievable she looked in white.
I was a lot more observant then. I kind of wish i still could be. I kind
of wish I were more like her.

“Have I ever told you about my high school girlfriend, Abby?” I was sure I
had mentioned her to Mike before. She had to have come up.
“Which one was she? Was that the one with the birthmark on her tit?” Mike
was laying on the couch eating Doritos staring at the black T.V.. screen.
“No you prick. That was your god damn girlfriend, remember? Dude,
seriously, your such an ass sometimes. I’m serious, I’ve been thinking
about this girl...”
“ I was just kidding relax, man. What the fuck do you think I’m doing on
my ass like this eating shit? Of course I remember the birthmark. I’d
rather not though.
There was a silence then and it was clear that our minds were in two or
more completely different places then.
“She’s the one that died in the car accident three years ago. Remember? I
couldn’t go to her funeral because I had finals.”
“Oh. Yeah, yeah. Sure. I remember her.”
I didn’t say anything after this. I just thought of Abby, and Michelle’s
birthmark (though I had never seen it), and the earrings on the bedside
table, and trying to match Abby’s breathing while she slept on my bed, and
the taste of her tears when I kissed her and said the most intimidating
three words to a girl for the first time in my life.
She cried. Can you believe it? I couldn’t. I couldn’t believe it. I
thought she’d be glad. I almost cried too. I’m not sure why. Just that I
liked her so much. And she was crying on my shirt and all I could do was
hold her tighter and keep asking myself “You do, don’t you? You do, don’t
you?”

One of the entries contains only a poem. Just a poem. It’s not one of
Abby’s, I can tell. From what I remember, she didn’t write like this. It’s
a Sylvia Plath. I can’t remember if she was her favorite.

“From her lips ampersands and percent signs
Exit like kisses.
It is Monday in her mind: morals

Launder and present themselves.
What am I to make of these contradictions?
I wear white cuffs, I bow.”

That’s just an excerpt. I guess it’s the part that I get or like or
neither. Anyhow, the line that most caught my attention was the one that
asked “what am I to make of these contradictions?” I could be asking the
same thing.

It’s been exactly three years since Abby’s death today. The sad thing is,
to me she never died. Not in the sense that she “lives on in my memories”
or any of that shit. It’s just that I no longer saw her often, or at all
for that matter, and so there was no contrast to before and after her death.
She existed just as much and just as little. Maybe I should have called
her. Maybe I should have at least gone to her damn funeral!”

So many different people come in to the pharmacy that I work at. It’s like,
no matter what type of clothes they wear, the books they read, the type of
porn they like, their sexuality, all of them need their little orange
cylinders to go on.
A girl walked in today around 2:00, picking up her antidepressants. I’d
seen her there before. She was a regular. This time I noticed that she
wore a silver bracelet very similar to the one Abby wore. She was dressed
in plain clothes so I assumed that the bracelet was part of her everyday
attire. I found it strange. I was surprised I’d never noticed before. I
wouldn’t have noticed before.

“ Surrealism is an escape and I am a surrealist! Escapist. In the many
things that I do. Escapism leads to Excusim. I am an excusist. I thrive
on excuses. Yet claim to be a realist, just to deny, or escape from, the
surrealism.”
You see what I mean? “What am I to make of these contradictions?” It’s
all so ... surreal. And now I find myself quoting a Sylvia Plath poem.
I’d never have expected this. I didn’t expect to find the journal, or
notice a depressed girl’s bracelet when she picks up her drugs. I didn’t
plan this. Somehow, it feels more like this was Abby’s plan from the
beginning. She was always reading me her poetry, or mostly other people’s
poetry. “The poetry and words of the most famous ghosts”, she would say.
On the same entry there’s another quote. I’m not sure where it came from.
There’s no explanation. It’s in quotes though, which means they aren’t her
words. They’re not mine either.
“But none of you knows how important it is to get to the meaning, the real
meaning of things, of words, the truth behind the galaxies of obfuscation
... of shit.”

Wednesdays are the slowest days at the pharmacy. Everyone’s got their
pills for the week. I found some time to call my sister in Chicago up. She
told me about her kids. I told her about the journal. I didn’t give
details. Just said I’d been thinking about Abby.
“ Alex, maybe it’d be a good idea for you to go visit her.” Kelly was
always helpful when I needed her. But sometimes the way she saw things
really bugged me.
“Visit her? Kel, she’s dead.”
“ I mean her grave. She’s buried at Frankfort Cemetery. It might help. I
think I’m going to visit Mom and Dad next weekend if you need company.”
And so I found myself on a train home. I only brought a backpack with a
few clothes and Abby’s journal. I kept it in my hand the whole ride. I’d
flip through it and read a few words every now and then. “What am I to make
of these contradictions?”

Imagine yourself before your bathroom mirror. The door is locked. You are completely alone and nude, with the exception of your reflection, which stares boldly back at you in its definition. Unless you are in absolute denial, you are now observing at least your facial features. Following the observations, hand-in-hand, comes the criticism.
Gradually, you recreate a new, improved, and pleasing self, then frame it and hang it over the mirror. But it is still a work-in-progress. You now turn to which ever direction the full-body mirror stands and proceed to continue the critiquing process on your torso and limbs. The love-handles vanish, your legs and arms are sculpted and ridges form on your abs. You pivot on your delicate and small feet to view your buttocks which is now firm and round leading back up to your smooth, tan back and shoulders. You neck is long and your jaw line is distinct. Your soft, full lips spread wide into a smile, exposing your straight, bleach-white teeth ... then...suddenly it disappears in an instant. You stare at the reformed figure before you , fixing your eyes on those elaborately perfected ones and quickly sink into a state of nausea.
Nausea evolves into resentment; Resentment of the perfection, the flawlessness, the expectation, the inevitability of this ... “beauty”. Is ideal beauty too much beauty?
What can be done with fair skin? No art is needed for fair skin. No application of make-up, no struggle to become comfortable with blemishes. Fair skin is a blank page for peers to build on, but you do not want to be built on. You want to do your own building. Sure, sculpted legs and arms are practical but uncharacteristic. And yes, soft, easily shaken fat may not be the ideal, but a compromising median is what makes you you. In some occasions even, the fat is assisting in making up for the absence of curves. Small, delicate feet don't count for much, you will discover, in the middle of a three-mile race. And full lips can be burdening, perhaps overwhelming an intimate partner. As long as the teeth are healthy and can handle some heavy duty consumption, they will do.
Humans need contrast to grasp and hold their attention. It is a principle of art. Humans need something to look at, something to react to, something that will ignite a fire, however intense, inside of them. Red scars which echo the death of a pimple stand out against the smooth, peachy or soft brown skin color. In a sense, they decorate the T-zone like ornaments. Wide hips, large thighs, big feet, frizzy hair, round bellies, these are the characteristics that silently shout, “Hi, I'm so-and-so. Nice to meet you!”
So, Cosmo Girl, Teen People, Allure, Seventeen, grab a writing instrument and take notes because this is the “juicy info”. This is what every girl is dying to be told. This is what's “hot”. Uncontrollable hair is in, thin lips are sexy, fat thighs, big hips, and round bellies are irresistible. Big feet are impressive and can be dressed up or down on occasion. And scarring acne is a must-have!