Rendezvous
18 May 07 : 05.23 AM
Eighteen was no longer pulling hair and deep-clawing my own breasts in anguish and rage. No longer waking up unfamiliar and crying to daddy, no, I don't want to go to school, please. Gauze memories and vague dreams, now where do I go? I think I stopped believing (bye-bye poetry, mysticism and song-like sins). Eighteen was no longer sounding plaintive and rough and daggerish and cloaked. No more South Park and Sex & the City reruns past midnight. No longer pretending to love those boys and no more poetic license to mask it. And nobody ever wonders if I'm Japanese anymore. Silver suddenly but always tone-clear.
Eighteen was cherry little and severe. Eventually perfect.
Eighteen was the body shop's body butter, collecting those scents in my drawer. Estee's Green Tea scent, Starbucks vanilla coffee from petrol stations at 4am, ylang ylang mixed with French rose. China tea and reminisces. Seaweed spas and sashimi lunches. Eighteen was new wave and synth pop music at the back of my head. Piano girls they soothe my soul while I study half-heartedly for Economics. It was sonal asylum again (17 I parted with Tori), singers waxing lyrical and I hide behind knowing words. Eighteen was the cover records, scarlet's walk, playing the angel, extraordinary machine, hurricane bar, elevator, let's bottle bohemia and all sparks. Maybe some Ultravox and Talking Heads and some sleepless nights with MTV playing old music videos.
Eighteen was long dinners and cutesy giggles with those boys. Oh, the other boys all died. Long dinners but longer car rides. Feet on someone's lap and pretending to sip martini at some club. Some club. Tedious class and kitsch Indie, seriously Kurt, you may be wrong on this. You are who you pretend to be. Dinners? Those dinners like yin-yang tea and Coffee Bean menus and spicyspice seafood and lemongrassThai.
Eighteen was gasping pianos when no one is looking. Laughing, not frail but not loving either. Too much surprises in plastic jars, or so they say. Eighteen is sweet girls and old friends but new lives. Eighteen is experiencing it all with them, but yet never sharing a single moment at all. Turning on old lava lamps and hiding old hearts. Luminous. Eighteen died at 14, sometimes.
Eighteen was Danii. It was first-kiss/last-kiss, and slweepy on the bus to somewhere(nowhere). It was being scared/notbrave, but then, he exhales. It was chocolate fondue and Lebanese food and a lot of chinese noodles and more belgium chocolate but a lot more excitement about the first time sleeping over. It was beach movies and long kisses and slow dances or lotsoflaughter. Sometimes it was tears and violence, but mostly it was so velvet. Gold trimmings on broken souls to seal. Someone's stitched shut. My symbol of a wolf. [Eighteen is finally (and always) talking about Danii because he's Danii, and not like those other boys that I go elusive and call "him" or "he" or give some abbreviated names to hide them between the pages and never between the arteries of my heart.] Eighteen was finally being truly in someone else's head.
Eighteen is over and done with. Eighteen doesn't exist anymore, except in these pages or behind my closed eyes or people who saw it with me. Nineteen is here and is calling to me, and I think I understand her.
Nineteen and I feel the jerk of the string. Hi, You.