Lackadaisical Cogitations

20.09.2011

Happy birthday, lover.

Lover, you are next to me when the stars wrap us in a cashmere blanket and pierce the black chill.

Lover, as my heart flies up my throat, you take this shaking hand like it is yours because it is, and it will be until those stars fall out of the black and the blue and splash into the ocean, one by one, like the loose buttons on your pea-coat.

Lover, your eyes are a Vancouver skyline at midnight. Forgetting them would be forgetting how to walk.

Lover, your lips. Your lips send my stomach to the moon your lips are Harry Potter magic.

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(Source: bee-ell-oh-gee)

(Source: bee-ell-oh-gee)

… is life.

-KVV

(Source: bee-ell-oh-gee)

(Source: bee-ell-oh-gee)

Here I am on top of this collection of particles of water and ice suspended in the air, miles above the planet that you are all so familiar with. I have heard the saying, “living on top of a cloud,” time after time. People often use it to express how utterly satisfied they are, how nothing at that moment in their life could ever upset them or get in their way. Well, here I am. It’s cold and these birds are a real pain. How did I get here?

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(Source: bee-ell-oh-gee)

lines and shadows scream out
when you touch them
don’t touch me.
light sneaks out from underneath
the stained blanket
it is a spell
abracadabra.
your hazel eyes appear
they see deep into me
they molest my soul
you know nothing about me.
when your eyes see my eyes
they say
“I know your secrets.”
you push me ten thousand feet down
my hands and feet are shackled
I am inside of your bed
clawing my way out.
as you lie and lie and read your stories
oblivious.

-Karina Von Voigt

(Source: bee-ell-oh-gee)

I remember the first time I learned about the word “fuck.” I think his name was Damon, in the lunch room. He spelled it out for me. He said, “If you’re so smart, what does F-U-C-K spell?” I said, “Fuck?” I thought it was a silly word; it sounded like the sound a chicken makes, “cluck.” I kept saying it over and over again and the kids called the principal and the principal called my mom. I remember the principal. She always carried around a tiny poodle. I don’t remember what colour it was. Brown? Black? Maybe it was white.

-Karina Von Voigt

(Source: bee-ell-oh-gee)

I don’t remember losing any of my teeth, or learning how to ride a bike. I don’t know what theme my seventh birthday party was. I remember when my best friend’s little brother was hit by a car. He died the same day even though they sent a helicopter. My best friend called me and I told her that she shouldn’t joke like that but she wasn’t joking. I don’t remember how old we were. Third grade, maybe. The last time I ever saw him he was jumping on the couch telling me how excited he was to go to the first grade. I don’t remember my first day of school.

-Karina Von Voigt

(Source: bee-ell-oh-gee)

Rope. On my neck it was a Python.
“It is a disease.” They said. “We are curing you.” They said. My voice ran away. The two women spit at my body to ward the devil away. Their eyes were telling me that I should be ashamed. The men entered me, one after the other. There were moments when all of me was filled up by the men. They kept going, even when I looked down and saw red all over, they told me the devil was not gone yet. The little girl across the room was petting her baby goat and watching me. My face was a drum. I could hear the sheep calling to each other outside. I wanted to be with the sheep. My legs would no longer move and my arms wanted to lay down and sleep. I could no longer see their faces. The spirits had taken me, I was sure of it. I was inside the fire.
Her eyes are the color of the earth. Touching her skin is touching a plantain. Her laugh is the sounds of the forest after the sun takes a nap. Her lips on my nipples is the last thing I want to feel before I die. I could not go like this. I pleaded with the spirits, asking them to let me see her once more before they take me.
My body was wet and tight. His hands were stones upon my forehead. He was chanting a prayer to ward off evil. The room was cool and quiet. “You are cured.” He said. The women were not there anymore. There were no men except the healer. “You must fast for eleven days. Do not move from this spot.” He said. His bones were snapping twigs when he raised his body up. There were two men sitting outside by the door. I could not hear what the healer said to them.
“You are a woman again.” He said.

-Karina Von Voigt

(Source: bee-ell-oh-gee)

I have to tell myself it is not real. It is a dream. I wake up and bury my face into my pillow. This is much too familiar. I want to sleep forever and make this dream my life. In my dream he tells me he’s sorry. He tells me he wants to be with me again forever and ever. He tells me he loves me. His smile makes my body explode into a million tiny butterflies. I’m in class and I look up to the door. He’s leaning his shoulder against the frame, one foot crossed in front of the other with that lip-bite/smile. My professor takes one split-second glance toward the door then continues with her lesson. He’s holding a single red rose. His eyes say, “Everything is okay.”

When I have these dreams my real life gets sucked into a black hole.

-Karina Von Voigt

(Source: bee-ell-oh-gee)

yes, I am escaping. When they say it, they act like the way a mother would when she sees her kid drunk for the first time. “You’re escaping.” Yes, I am. To be quite frank, I would rather not die. I would rather start over on earth than start over… wherever people go when they’re dead. What do I mean by this? I mean I have hit a wall. I haven’t quite hit rock bottom, but I have definitely hit a big ass wall.

My solutions were as follows: kill myself, leave this hell-hole, or Prozac. I chose to get the fuck out because I’m not very fond of zombie-inducing drugs, and once again I would rather be alive somewhere else. Somewhere where the memories aren’t as ubiquitous. I bought my plane ticket four days ago, dropped my classes, and moved out of my prison cell of a dorm.

My first stop is Atlanta, GA. For three hours. After Atlanta, I land in Montreal, Quebec. From there, I am picked up by my father’s cousin Bash, and I am driven about an hour to my final destination of Stanstead. It’s an adorably quaint little town right on the border of Vermont, where I will spend the majority of my time writing short stories and screenplays, and waitressing at Millie’s diner, the restaurant owned by Bash.

Allow me to recapitulate:

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(Source: bee-ell-oh-gee)

his dog stood on two legs and clawed at your nylons when you walked into his house. Seven gold condom wrappers were strewn about the hardwood floor, some were hidden in jeans or shirts, three were torn open. His string of Hanukkah lights lining his headboard clicked against the brick wall. At one point you screamed for mercy.

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(Source: bee-ell-oh-gee)

when I am upset I drink jasmine tea because it’s expensive and it makes me feel like a princess, like the way he used to make me feel. I put five little jasmine balls in a cup and wonder how they tied them so tight and I pour boiling water over them and watch them in my cup for what feels like an hour. I watch them blossom and grow so big, like they’re alive and they grow and make a garden in the bottom of my cup. When they look like they are finished opening up and I get ready to take them out and pour them in the sink, they twitch and pop and surprise me and I stay and watch for longer.

-Karina Von Voigt

(Source: bee-ell-oh-gee)