Written By Me.
---
There's a man who lives upstairs
wrapped in clouds of smoke and kerosene
who likes to burn me with his eyes
when I ask him for a cup of sugar.
His hair is brown and unkempt
and a beard hugs his jaw.
He wears a bored expression
and leaves his dirty laundry on the floor.
Sometimes, I wonder what he listens to
when he's falling asleep at night.
If the city drifts through his window
on the thick breeze of a summer night.
If I could fall asleep with him,
and watch the walls close in some night
when the bed is hot and the floor is cold,
I might let go of his mystery
and find my own.
Tuesday, July 28, 2009
Friday, July 24, 2009
Who is this man, and why do you fear him?
---
You met under green lights and you gave him your name, assuming you could trust his pointed ears to keep it safe. Assuming you could trust anyone. When you asked his name, he told you it was Edward. So, you named him Edward, in his tight, black turtle neck that clung to his round torso and the thick bone of his forearm and elbow. Edward, with a red and gold belt holding up the black pants that continued to outline his odd physique. Edward, in a pair of red shoes with black laces that could tell stories about the dirty floors of dance clubs, strange apartments, and sweat flooded parties full of nude skin and phrases broken into grunted syllables.
Who is this man, and why do you fear him?
There was nothing between you. Nothing good or bad to make you think less or more of him, but, he made your heart prickle and your skin race. The only things you had in common were the shadows and the strangely colored lights of the club. So, you carried his name in your pocket as a lightweight reminder of everything you knew about him and tried not to let him escape into the corners and empty spaces whenever you turned away.
Who is this man, and why do you fear him?
The dancing evolved as you moved. Fast, at first, like the throbbing beat of the drum machine pulsing through the floor and the walls. Then, slower, lazier, more curious as you studied each other’s moves. His eyes burrowed into yours violently and mercilessly. At moments, you could feel his arms brushing against you, like little question marks to punctuate each move. Can I touch you? he was asking, and you could feel his heat radiating, radiating. Edward, you named the feel of his fingers on the small of your back. Edward, you named the way he let his eyes fall down the nape of your neck. Edward, you named the lips that you were curious to touch and feel.
Who is this man, and why do you fear him?
You left the club without a kiss, without a number, without anything but Edward, the name of the memories you were clinging to. The street was wet, your feet got cold and you flexed your toes inside your shoes. You didn’t think about the height of the buildings surrounding you, or the thin shadows cast by signs on the side of the road. Though you were sure you would never see Edward again, you knew you would feel him, and the feeling soaked into your bones and made you shiver.
Who is this man, and why do you fear him?
Sunday, July 19, 2009
First Date
The bathroom stall was cold, small, and puke-colored-pink. I rested my head in my hands and tried not to hyperventilate as I felt the walls close in on me. My hair was too long, it was frizzy and disgusting. My fingernails with dirty and uneven. My hands were too big and my legs were too small. I could still feel his eyes on me as I sat down at the table.
Of course, there was nothing wrong with him. Strong, handsome, smart, perfect.
I ordered my food and knew that I ordered too much. I was fat and stupid. A blob of filth and incompetence. I could feel his thoughts radiating toward me, despite the smile on his face.
I looked around at the walls of the stall. There were a few pitiful attempts at graffiti here and there. Something about The Killers ruling, another note with just a name, a doodle of hangman with the words "Love Hurts" filling in the spaces. I shook my head and tried to take a few deep breaths before standing up. The toilet flushed immediately and I opened to door of the stall to step out and wash my face and hands.
As I stood over the sink, I let the water run for a moment or two, staring at the stream with dead eyes. I dipped my face in, bent down, and scrubbed my face vigorously with both hands. After, instead of feeling clean, I just felt wet. I frowned at my reflection, then noticed words in my reflection. I turned around to look at the wall behind me and saw "YOU ARE BEAUTIFUL" written backwards, so that I could read it in the mirror.
I inhaled sharply and saw a smile in the mirror. It surprised me that the smile was mine. I dried my face and my hands with a paper towel and found myself smiling all the way back to the table.
He noticed the smile. "You're beaming," he observed.
"This is a nice date," I said simply, shrugging. But, in the back of my head, all I could see were those three words.
YOU ARE BEAUTIFUL.
---
Copyright JuliaBydulia
Inspired by: http://operationbeautiful.com/
Of course, there was nothing wrong with him. Strong, handsome, smart, perfect.
I ordered my food and knew that I ordered too much. I was fat and stupid. A blob of filth and incompetence. I could feel his thoughts radiating toward me, despite the smile on his face.
I looked around at the walls of the stall. There were a few pitiful attempts at graffiti here and there. Something about The Killers ruling, another note with just a name, a doodle of hangman with the words "Love Hurts" filling in the spaces. I shook my head and tried to take a few deep breaths before standing up. The toilet flushed immediately and I opened to door of the stall to step out and wash my face and hands.
As I stood over the sink, I let the water run for a moment or two, staring at the stream with dead eyes. I dipped my face in, bent down, and scrubbed my face vigorously with both hands. After, instead of feeling clean, I just felt wet. I frowned at my reflection, then noticed words in my reflection. I turned around to look at the wall behind me and saw "YOU ARE BEAUTIFUL" written backwards, so that I could read it in the mirror.
I inhaled sharply and saw a smile in the mirror. It surprised me that the smile was mine. I dried my face and my hands with a paper towel and found myself smiling all the way back to the table.
He noticed the smile. "You're beaming," he observed.
"This is a nice date," I said simply, shrugging. But, in the back of my head, all I could see were those three words.
YOU ARE BEAUTIFUL.
---
Copyright JuliaBydulia
Inspired by: http://operationbeautiful.com/
Friday, July 17, 2009
A Paper Chain
Copyright Julia Bydulia.
---
There’s a paper chain of memories
looping around the bumps and corners
of my subconscious.
---
There’s a paper chain of memories
looping around the bumps and corners
of my subconscious.
How long have you been there,
lurking in the shadows,
waiting?
I run my wrist through the holes
and wear the years like bracelets,
all the time trying to convince myself
that that’s all that’s left:
a few good years (and some change)
that we shared blindly
but together.
Monday, July 13, 2009
Bucket of Rain
Copyright Julia Bydulia.
---
There was a crack in the sidewalk
where our dreams would leak through
like vanilla pudding or a bucket of rain:
trying to catch it with open fists
just didn't work, no matter how hard we tried.
Still, we walked by that crack in the sidewalk
every Wednesday afternoon
when you got off work early and
I had nothing better to do.
You would brachiate from branch to branch
of your family tree on that endless search
for a spare dollar, quarter, or a dime
for us to spend on cigarettes that would
never light in the soggy street.
I kept a hand in your back pocket
and an eye on the elegant sculpture of your face
as we jumped over the crack in the sidewalk
and tried not to fall in.
Tuesday, July 7, 2009
My Sister's Principle: The Ten Firsts
Copyright Julia Bydulia.
---
When I first met you, I told you that I would never hold back. There would be no lying, no sparing feelings for the sake of our relationship. We had no relationship, but, I knew you were looking for one.
You were following me around the library with that broken expression on your face, asking me questions. "Do you have a boyfriend?" Was what you decided to finish with.
I tucked my hair behind my ear and froze behind the mystery shelf. "Look," I said sharply, resting one hand on your chest. "I just met you, and I won't lie, I do like you." I watched your eyes light up at the sound of those words strung together. "But, I don't sugar coat shit, honey." You loved the way I called you honey.
"I'm not one for a sweet tooth," you told me, smirking nervously. You were trying to impress me with your wit, I could tell.
I laughed and rested my palm on your cheek. "See? You're cute. I can tell that you're into me, too. But I'm the kind of girl who likes to drink and smoke, who forgets to put her glasses on in the morning."
"I don't need glasses. I don't need my liver," you pleaded.
I smiled at you and I know you sensed the pity in my voice when I continued. "Frank, that's the name, is it?" You nodded, so excited. "Well, Frank, today is your lucky day. I'm about to let you take me out to lunch today. I'm free around one. Don't be late."
I continued walking up and down the shelves, and you kept on following me.
"It's only noon, little boy. Come back another time." I laughed, watching you scurry out of the library, through the doors and into the sun while I was cramped in the air conditioned air and the bookshelves.
Since that day, since that egg salad sandwich you bought me, and within every moment between, you've been loving me constantly, insistently. I told you I wouldn't sugarcoat things, and now it breaks my heart that I can't. Every honest word I speak snaps you into smaller pieces.
My sister told me that there are ten important firsts to every lasting relationship: the first time you meet, your first date, your first kiss, the first gifts you exchange, the first time you say 'I love you', the first time you have sex, the first time you meet each other's parents, the first time you fight, when he first proposes, and the first pregnancy test you buy. Not necessarily in that order, she told me. But, her theory is that, in order to be lasting, every couple must experience these things together.
We met in that library.
We dated at the cafe down the street.
We kissed on the stoop outside my apartment building.
You bought me reading glasses at the library, so I bought you a new case for your trusty Costellos.
You told me you loved me at midnight at my favorite bar over a bowl of mixed nuts, my empty glass, and your full one.
We had sex at your place amidst your comic books and novellas in your living room.
Your parents lived in a small town in eastern Illionois; my parents lived in a big city in New York. Your mom liked my "spunk" and my dad appreciated your sensibility.
The first fight didn't take long, you know. I found my ways to make my biting remarks and you were always so passive agressive.
The proposal came last. After everything. After the drugstore.
The lights were harsh and almost blinding. I felt like sheilding my eyes as I picked up box after box and tried to translate all of the gibberish into something I could understand. "They're just plastic sticks you piss on, dammit. What's with all this scientific mumbo jumbo?" I snapped.
You rubbed my shoulders in that way you had that always made me smile. Even there, even amidst all the shit we were in. "All you have to do it pick one," you whispered soothingly.
I couldn't, though. My head was spinning. I could read, I could breathe, of course I couldn't decide. I picked up every little box and tried to say to myself Yes, this is the one but there was no way.
Before I could decide, you got down on one knee and grabbed my hand. "Whatever happens after you take a piss on that plastic stick," you whispered to me. "I want you to know that I want to marry you, Pen."
My throat seized up and I collapsed onto the floor of that stupid, little CVS. "I'd marry you, too, Frankie. But, not right now. Not while my nails are black and my stockings are still fishnets. I'm no mother and I'm no wife, and I don't want your paracite growing inside me."
You wrapped your arms around me and kissed the top of my head. "Penelope," you laughed.
You weren't one to have a sweet tooth, and you had adjusted to my savory or sour language. Still, I wasn't laughing. I was shaking, I was shallow, and I was full.
I was so sick of your broken looks and the fact that you'd put up with me when I treated you like shit. But, I'd never dated a guy willing to propose in the Family Planning aisle.
We got checked out and I took a short trip to the bathroom, unleashing a storm of the Arizona teas I had chugged in the car ride to the store. You waited outside, sweating and on the verge of tears. When I returned, it only took me shaking my head to send both of us back onto the floor in a pile of formerly human puddles of relief.
"No family planning then, huh?" You asked, stroking my hair and kissing my forehead again and again.
"Hopefully not for a long time," I shot back, though I could tell your hopes had gone up for just a second. You blinked, and it was gone, but, I had seen it there when you looked at me.
You nodded and cleared your throat. "Hopefully not for a long time."
So, if my sister is right, we have a long time left for family planning. We are one of the couples that survived. We made it through the date, the kiss, and the gift exchange, 'I love you', the sex, and the parents, the fights, the propsal, and the pregnancy test. We've arrived, Frankie. Maybe someday I'll walk down a different aisle and find myself happy to be in your arms.
Until then, I'm happy being Ms. Penelope Schaffer with a job at a library, a geeky boyfriend, and a home in Los Angeles that most girls would kill for. I'm happy being sour instead of sweet and remembering all of those bitter memories with you.
---
When I first met you, I told you that I would never hold back. There would be no lying, no sparing feelings for the sake of our relationship. We had no relationship, but, I knew you were looking for one.
You were following me around the library with that broken expression on your face, asking me questions. "Do you have a boyfriend?" Was what you decided to finish with.
I tucked my hair behind my ear and froze behind the mystery shelf. "Look," I said sharply, resting one hand on your chest. "I just met you, and I won't lie, I do like you." I watched your eyes light up at the sound of those words strung together. "But, I don't sugar coat shit, honey." You loved the way I called you honey.
"I'm not one for a sweet tooth," you told me, smirking nervously. You were trying to impress me with your wit, I could tell.
I laughed and rested my palm on your cheek. "See? You're cute. I can tell that you're into me, too. But I'm the kind of girl who likes to drink and smoke, who forgets to put her glasses on in the morning."
"I don't need glasses. I don't need my liver," you pleaded.
I smiled at you and I know you sensed the pity in my voice when I continued. "Frank, that's the name, is it?" You nodded, so excited. "Well, Frank, today is your lucky day. I'm about to let you take me out to lunch today. I'm free around one. Don't be late."
I continued walking up and down the shelves, and you kept on following me.
"It's only noon, little boy. Come back another time." I laughed, watching you scurry out of the library, through the doors and into the sun while I was cramped in the air conditioned air and the bookshelves.
Since that day, since that egg salad sandwich you bought me, and within every moment between, you've been loving me constantly, insistently. I told you I wouldn't sugarcoat things, and now it breaks my heart that I can't. Every honest word I speak snaps you into smaller pieces.
My sister told me that there are ten important firsts to every lasting relationship: the first time you meet, your first date, your first kiss, the first gifts you exchange, the first time you say 'I love you', the first time you have sex, the first time you meet each other's parents, the first time you fight, when he first proposes, and the first pregnancy test you buy. Not necessarily in that order, she told me. But, her theory is that, in order to be lasting, every couple must experience these things together.
We met in that library.
We dated at the cafe down the street.
We kissed on the stoop outside my apartment building.
You bought me reading glasses at the library, so I bought you a new case for your trusty Costellos.
You told me you loved me at midnight at my favorite bar over a bowl of mixed nuts, my empty glass, and your full one.
We had sex at your place amidst your comic books and novellas in your living room.
Your parents lived in a small town in eastern Illionois; my parents lived in a big city in New York. Your mom liked my "spunk" and my dad appreciated your sensibility.
The first fight didn't take long, you know. I found my ways to make my biting remarks and you were always so passive agressive.
The proposal came last. After everything. After the drugstore.
The lights were harsh and almost blinding. I felt like sheilding my eyes as I picked up box after box and tried to translate all of the gibberish into something I could understand. "They're just plastic sticks you piss on, dammit. What's with all this scientific mumbo jumbo?" I snapped.
You rubbed my shoulders in that way you had that always made me smile. Even there, even amidst all the shit we were in. "All you have to do it pick one," you whispered soothingly.
I couldn't, though. My head was spinning. I could read, I could breathe, of course I couldn't decide. I picked up every little box and tried to say to myself Yes, this is the one but there was no way.
Before I could decide, you got down on one knee and grabbed my hand. "Whatever happens after you take a piss on that plastic stick," you whispered to me. "I want you to know that I want to marry you, Pen."
My throat seized up and I collapsed onto the floor of that stupid, little CVS. "I'd marry you, too, Frankie. But, not right now. Not while my nails are black and my stockings are still fishnets. I'm no mother and I'm no wife, and I don't want your paracite growing inside me."
You wrapped your arms around me and kissed the top of my head. "Penelope," you laughed.
You weren't one to have a sweet tooth, and you had adjusted to my savory or sour language. Still, I wasn't laughing. I was shaking, I was shallow, and I was full.
I was so sick of your broken looks and the fact that you'd put up with me when I treated you like shit. But, I'd never dated a guy willing to propose in the Family Planning aisle.
We got checked out and I took a short trip to the bathroom, unleashing a storm of the Arizona teas I had chugged in the car ride to the store. You waited outside, sweating and on the verge of tears. When I returned, it only took me shaking my head to send both of us back onto the floor in a pile of formerly human puddles of relief.
"No family planning then, huh?" You asked, stroking my hair and kissing my forehead again and again.
"Hopefully not for a long time," I shot back, though I could tell your hopes had gone up for just a second. You blinked, and it was gone, but, I had seen it there when you looked at me.
You nodded and cleared your throat. "Hopefully not for a long time."
So, if my sister is right, we have a long time left for family planning. We are one of the couples that survived. We made it through the date, the kiss, and the gift exchange, 'I love you', the sex, and the parents, the fights, the propsal, and the pregnancy test. We've arrived, Frankie. Maybe someday I'll walk down a different aisle and find myself happy to be in your arms.
Until then, I'm happy being Ms. Penelope Schaffer with a job at a library, a geeky boyfriend, and a home in Los Angeles that most girls would kill for. I'm happy being sour instead of sweet and remembering all of those bitter memories with you.
Chance to say
Copyright Julia Bydulia.
---
I love the white pieces of your sneakers
that you scuff and scrape in parking lots
while I sit on the trunk of your car and sip my
smoothie and chew my mountain of whipped cream.
You let that sweater hang on your chest
like a white flag that screamed at me from the
perch I held on the pedestal you put me on.
Keep it real and covered in the scuffs and scratches
before we both end up out of touch and out of reach
and our parking lot just disappears
because I always knew one city couldn't hold us both
with coffee shops and parking lots and lazy afternoons
that hold us down and tie us up until
there's nothing left but a shallow daytime sky.
I love the way you wrap me up in your arms
until I melt in your lap and
I don't want this feeling to die until I've had the chance
to say goodbye.
---
I love the white pieces of your sneakers
that you scuff and scrape in parking lots
while I sit on the trunk of your car and sip my
smoothie and chew my mountain of whipped cream.
You let that sweater hang on your chest
like a white flag that screamed at me from the
perch I held on the pedestal you put me on.
Keep it real and covered in the scuffs and scratches
before we both end up out of touch and out of reach
and our parking lot just disappears
because I always knew one city couldn't hold us both
with coffee shops and parking lots and lazy afternoons
that hold us down and tie us up until
there's nothing left but a shallow daytime sky.
I love the way you wrap me up in your arms
until I melt in your lap and
I don't want this feeling to die until I've had the chance
to say goodbye.
Thursday, July 2, 2009
Blurb #6
Copyright Julia Bydulia.
Word Count: 97
Title: Red-Orange Phone
---
Where is the line crossed between a late night and insomnia? I’m sitting in front of the telephone, caught up in a staring contest and the feel of cracking my knuckles, my neck, my toes, my back… The phone used to be red. It’s faded since I bought it, so it looks orange now. My gray eyes are drying out, turning white through and through. I pick it up, press the button with the big white 4 on it. With my thumb poised over the 7, I hit myself and put the phone down, assuming staring position.
Word Count: 97
Title: Red-Orange Phone
---
Where is the line crossed between a late night and insomnia? I’m sitting in front of the telephone, caught up in a staring contest and the feel of cracking my knuckles, my neck, my toes, my back… The phone used to be red. It’s faded since I bought it, so it looks orange now. My gray eyes are drying out, turning white through and through. I pick it up, press the button with the big white 4 on it. With my thumb poised over the 7, I hit myself and put the phone down, assuming staring position.
Wednesday, July 1, 2009
Blurb #5
Copyright Julia Bydulia
Word Count: 99
Title: 11 Different Ways
---
I wish you would stop popping up in my life in the most stupid, aggravating ways. Walking down the street, I’m reminded of you eleven different ways. I pull my scarf tighter around my neck and try to strangle you out of me, but, I can’t even strangle out the cold. The wind whips me left to right and back again. I stare at my shoes, the sidewalk; nothing helps. I wish you could have the decency to leave me alone, but, I should know better than to even think it, shouldn’t I? You and decency never got along.
Word Count: 99
Title: 11 Different Ways
---
I wish you would stop popping up in my life in the most stupid, aggravating ways. Walking down the street, I’m reminded of you eleven different ways. I pull my scarf tighter around my neck and try to strangle you out of me, but, I can’t even strangle out the cold. The wind whips me left to right and back again. I stare at my shoes, the sidewalk; nothing helps. I wish you could have the decency to leave me alone, but, I should know better than to even think it, shouldn’t I? You and decency never got along.
Blurb #4
Copyright Julia Bydulia.
I know it's technically Wednesday. Sorry about that.
Word Count:100
Title: Red
---
I kept the piece of fabric that got caught on the emergency ladder. I know you probably didn’t expect me to. That would fall under the column of me “not caring.” But, it was a violent red against the wet metal and pavement of the alley. I picked it up and tucked it in my pocket as I stood there, alone, and hoped you would come back. I know that being drunk is no excuse, so I won’t use it. Her lips were so cherry red and begging for a kiss. Begging the way you hadn’t in months. I’m sorry.
I know it's technically Wednesday. Sorry about that.
Word Count:100
Title: Red
---
I kept the piece of fabric that got caught on the emergency ladder. I know you probably didn’t expect me to. That would fall under the column of me “not caring.” But, it was a violent red against the wet metal and pavement of the alley. I picked it up and tucked it in my pocket as I stood there, alone, and hoped you would come back. I know that being drunk is no excuse, so I won’t use it. Her lips were so cherry red and begging for a kiss. Begging the way you hadn’t in months. I’m sorry.
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