Matchbox Maladies

Catastrophic uncertainty of the self.

Category: Pup

there’s blood on your sheets and it’s not mine

by Sine Qua Non

What’s wrong, you ask. What’s up with the I’m-not-so-amused face. What’s up is that I can’t seem to get over the fact that you got blood on your sheets and I’m pretty sure they’re not my stains. What’s wrong is that it’s been days, a week even, and I thought I was okay but here I am sitting on your bed, on the spot where I didn’t sit the last time so I know some other girl sat and bled where I sit now. What I’m no longer amused at is this. I mean, I’m really fond of you, if it isn’t quite obvious yet. I find the time I spend with you absolutely delightful. All the conversations, beautiful arguments, temporally displaced meals, shots of scotch, whiffs of weed, moving music, divine lovemaking, and all the things I no longer need to enumerate. And though I knew, when I carefully tiptoed my way into this thing we have right now, that I do not have you to myself exclusively and though I thought I’m completely settled with that fact, apparently right now, in these recent days, maybe unknowingly in the past weeks, months even, some nagging feeling has sparked up the messed-up hopeful in me and got me thinking, hey, well maybe it wouldn’t be too bad to have you all to myself. But that’s not the point. Because what I assume is that that’s not something you’d sign up for. It’s just kind of shitty when you have the truth sort of present itself to your face and smother your freshly showered body with its filthy, bloody, mess. So I’m wondering now, whether you’re completely insensitive that you bother not to clean up before the next girl walks in so that I would, upon arrival, marvel at your wonderfully played polygamy or you’re messing up with me and testing the limits of what I would put up with or it’s just something you just totally pay no attention to. So now that I’m barely into grips with this I now am left clueless as to how to proceed in this relationship. Don’t get me wrong, I am not going to lash out at you for being so prolific with your other bedmates it’s just that I’ve fallen so utterly beyond recovery that I am quite afraid of losing the awesome pleasure of your company but I feel that I might just end up damaged after all of this. So, now, all I really need is to know now is where I stand with you. Maybe after that, I would know how to proceed. Or how not to.  

live through this and you won’t look back

by Sine Qua Non

i’ve been sitting here for close to thirty minutes singing the same song over and over again, imagining that you were sitting right in front of me and chuckling at my a capella version of Stars’ Your Ex-Lover Is Dead.

And when i get to that part when I have to sing that there’s one thing I want to say so I’ll be brave, when I croak out the words you were what I wanted it cuts through you like a knife and then you start bleeding on my feet while I take sweet time to finish the rest of the song. as i end it with i’m not sorry there’s nothing to save i read from the look in your eyes the same words in the song that say now you’re outside me you see all the beauty repent all your sin. it’s called regret but it is not really too late. we get knocked down by a couple of harsh truths in carefully written lyrics but we get back up again with another song that could save us.

or you keep bleeding. my hands are stained with your blood and my face wet with your tears. listen to the instruments poke fun at what we have. or what we don’t.

i’m not sorry there’s nothing to save. i’m not sorry. there’s nothing to save.

What’s Been Found

by Sine Qua Non

the thing about keeping a secret blog is the fact that i could actually write ANYTHING about what i think and feel and nobody will actually ever find out. hopefully. sort of. because, of course, a part of me secretly hopes that you would come across this in this big-ass digital universe. and maybe figure out that the stuff written here is all about you.  yeah that’s a strikethrough right there cause i wanted to erase what i wrote but i actually shouldn’t because, WHO THE HELL AM I EDITING THESE THINGS FOR?

It’s a fucking online diary. If anybody actually reads it, nobody’ll really know who the fuck I am.

So there.

Whew. That was quite liberating.

Okay. I don’t know if this will be a one time thing or not. I’ve really worked hard in trying to keep a sense of literary-ness to this blog. Sort of really churn out some really quaint stream-of-consciousness lovey-dovey shit that despite it’s stink of red hearts and romatic ek-ek (now, THAT sorta culturally places me at the moment, damn) would still sound and read really well. Well, what can i say. I’m a very poetic romantic. Or a very romantic poet. Or whatever.

So here I am now at the moment actually trying to figure out why I’m doing this again — ? Ah, well, because I’m home alone and sick and sort of getting lonely and I just watched a movie called Bridesmaids and before that watched a bootleg of Book of Mormon and in that bootleg a man was laughing from the audience and his laugh just sounded a lot like yours and that got me thinking of you then the rest of the day. Yeah, especially while watching Bridesmaids.

And I am writing this down because I don’t know how else to put it. I really don’t. Usually, if something poetic or metaphorical or eclectic or what-not comes to me, I just write it down. Eh well today, this is what came to me. And I figured, why the hell edit? Why not write it down? It lends a different voice to the blog. That’s not quite the blog but well, it’s still my voice and it would be refreshing to read this in the future. Okaaaay I wouldn’t really know that yet but I am anticipating that this would be a refreshing read amidst all the other stuff I’ve already written here. (NOTE TO SELF IN ALL CAPS: DO NOT LET THIS VOICE BE A STANDARD VOICE OF THE BLOG. KEEP CALM AND FINISH THIS ENTRY AND GET IT OVER WITH.)

This is actually pathetic because I’m setting up myself for it. Looking for the mushiest tracks I could listen to to get me in the mood to keep writing. Which is also becoming interesting because I actually want to use this as a study for an upcoming monologue I should write. Yeah, truth to follow. Haha. I didn’t think I would be writing a monologue but I think after this entry I should.

So where was I?

Ah yes, I’m about to find myself a cheesy song to write to. Haha.

Okay the song is called I Want You

 

 

Yeah. Honey, I want you so bad. On a lot of levels. Cause the nights we spent together weren’t very bad either.

And before I get started on that I am going to go back to why I started thinking of you in the first place. I wanted to ask my friend if when he downloaded the bootleg of Book of Mormon he consciously sought a copy that would bring me nights of demise. Or whatever. I couldn’t think of a more dramatic-but-not-too-mushy word. I hate how the guy who kept laughing at the insane moments of the play sounded just like you. I hate how, in the middle of jokes about AIDS and Christ I had no one but you in my mind. How the mind’s eye betrays me by playing a slideshow of your face, the way you laugh, smile, your hair, you beneath me, you inside me, you squeezing your nose into my nape. I hate how instead of clicking on a song a click on a spoken word video that puts me in a mood that takes me away from this voice and brings me back to that voice that fantasizes about you like you weren’t real. Like i could never have you and could only write about you like a poem I couldn’t own, a metaphor that could not be real. Something my hand couldn’t hold. Something that is not concrete. That could only be read meaning into but will never be what it really is.

So that’s about it, just at the splitsecond the poem ends I realize the truth about why I had to write you into the night like this. To tell myself that you are real. And that there is no certainty in ever having your or never having you. That I wish i could stop writing you into poems and verses and maybe hold you for real someday. That the pain would stop being so imagined and distant in my head. That when I hold you next time, you will read these words with me and laugh and on another week we will curse each other for having loved so much and given so little. And maybe embrace again. And laugh again. And stroke each other’s hair and stare into the night under your room’s dim yellow light. Why does your laugh have to resound in my head?

And that’s how love is when it is real and you cannot deny it no matter how hard you try to hide under your sheets and pages and pages of yellowed sheets. Paper, I mean. It rhymes on its own. It finds its layers of meaning. It finds its voice. It finds its own.

 

by Sine Qua Non

when there’s nothing left to burn, you have to set yourself on fire

 

here again after so many weeks of evading, avoiding, denying, searching, trying to put meaning without overreading, hoping that there indeed will be some sense into the sensations of wanting, being wanted, hoping to be wanted. we are still and quiet. while we say so much and leave so many other things unsaid. it is unfortunate that i cannot gaze into your eyes at the very moments the night calls for it. the answers i seek cannot be sent through mobile. a blinking screen cannot give light to the true questions of my heart. if we had wanted to see each other, then why has it not taken place? why the need to play safe? is it the time, but time moves as it should. it is mankind that fails to control it the way true souls would.

 

i keep telling myself something better will come. someone, rather. but in my heart of hearts, in the future i imagine, it is still you. only, you will choose me this time.

 

Quite Something

by Sine Qua Non

For self-preservation I have tried convincing myself that you are not the one for me. And even if you were, you probably wouldn’t give in to fate and fulfill that destiny. All the time, in my head, when we talk, when you hold me, when we kiss, when you’re inside me, when you reach for me, when you look at me and make your way to tear my heart into shreds, my brain struggles to keep everything together by sending out reminders to the rest of my being: he has no love for you, no way you will ever be together and get into a relationship. And I keep my cool. I stand my ground. I emerge whole. Supposedly, point for me. Yay.

Tonight I have decided to put an end to the foolishness.

No, not because I have found any clue to the truth of the things above. I still do not know whether you will take me seriously or not. I have not the slightest idea if you look at me in any other way aside from the hot stuff you take me for. But I like you. A lot. And, really, it’s quite the opposite of living life to the fullest if I shoot down possibilities even just inside my head. Yes, we have the liberty to believe. It’s just not a very good idea to believe that things will not happen for you. Faith was created for those who allow themselves to dream. They’re the romantics. Last I checked, I am quite one romantic. Except, for some, reason you’ve pushed me to hang that part of myself in the closet.

Not anymore. I permit myself to fall. And as I wait for my pair of wings to grow, I will revel in the possibility that, maybe one day, one of these days, soon, really, you’ll run to me, pull me towards you and say: Yeah, well. You’re quite something. Something I don’t think I can live without.

 Really, believe me, it’s not quite delusion. I am just allowing myself to hope, and believe.

Take the cue, universe. You know what to do.

Splinters Splitting Two Hearts Per Second

by Sine Qua Non

You know i was doing perfectly fine, sitting in this corner, making full sense and being happy with the prospect of my non-existence in your part of the universe. But there you go, hurling a rock through my window, sending cracks crawling at lightning speed through the glass sending splinters across the room, right smack at the crevices of my pulsating valve of blood.

I refuse to bleed to eradicate any trace of pain on the floor. But pain concealed is no less excruciating.

Yes, I was doing perfectly well. Formulating retorts to send you off, shoo you away. Calculating levels of indifference in a response, to maintain my stance of self-preservation. Indignant to remain at this corner, facing the wall, my back to you.

Please, not the finger tracing my spine, not your palm on my  nape, not your breath on my ear.

I’m turning away. I will turn away. I have to keep turning away.

Blurred and Burnt

by Sine Qua Non

thinking about it, the very reason i continue to long for you now is because i keep telling myself to stop.

who am i fooling thinking i could handle this supposed no-nonsense affair. more than what you pour in my glass and what you light up between my lips,  it is your scent and your touch that intoxicates me. the nights never blur past and the mornings are never empty of the mental scenes from the previous night. the  recollection stretches on for days, weeks. i do not need to remember, my senses relive it for me.

ugh. why do i have to give in to the fantasy that you would want me for more than just one night?

because we didn’t share just one night. and not just two even. not just nights. even days.

ugh.

ugh. ugh. ugh.

Only Under Your Sheets

by Sine Qua Non

the grayness of the morning and the cool drizzle conjures in me an excruciating desire to reach for that patch of your back hidden beneath your hair and run my fingers down to trace the line of your spine and find that crevice of your waist where my palm will rest and wait for your fingers to come and converge with mine

but you do not rest under these sheets with me

i have to be the one to go to you and place myself precisely at the curve of embrace your body opens for me on your bed

inside where you are, we exist to each other like comforts we cannot let go of, in this distance we are waiting for the other to express their longing hoping that one is not rejected, hoping for another night we chase to the break of dawn

we wake up in a tangle of each other, our limbs reach for the other in sleep, and in our minds we convince ourselves that we do not consciously do it

the hour, the liquor, the sensation of being longed for conjures in me the painful kind of desire for that moment when you tuck your face into my nape breathing me in, brushing against the tiniest of hairs, making every grain of me tremble as my pores awake and you clutch at my hips and pull me towards you, stare into my soul, almost certain to never let me go, pull me tighter, own me, no words, no certainty, almost true, maybe

maybe next time, i should not let you go, i should not let go