She’ll fall into your life when you absolutely, positively least expect it. I know, that’s fucking cliche. Or, you may be on the hunt for a girl like her. Because at first, to you, a girl like that? She’s weak. She’s unstable. Daddy issues. That’s why she’s rocking green. fucking. fingernails. They’re the easiest to keep you company when you’re lonely, right? Right. So you let her hop in your passenger seat. But then, shit, you fall in love with her.
Of course I’m making the rash assumption you’re going to love her – because you already know you are falling so head over heels for her, you can’t manage to put on the emotional brakes.
You think, fuck. My brake lines. You swear last month you had that shit checked. You had that under control.
She’s fickle. She’s adventurous. She’s fire. She’s everything you’ve dreamnt of. Her laugh echos the sound of mystery that shrouded your dreams of the girl that’s now right in front of you – it’s her. She’s real, not a dream girl riding a troll into a lucid battle. Except. She has green fingernails. And, she’s not quite right. She wears heels while wearing absolutely nothing, which there isn’t much wrong with that, except she cries into her micro-wine-o-phone until you somehow manage to sway her off her cushioned stage into your arms. You try your hardest to reassure her she is perfect. And in the middle of all this. You think back,
fuck, my brake lines.
She’ll do things to you that make you think, fuck, did I really consider that? Like, hey, let’s just say fuck it. Let’s share a bed, under a shared roof, you know, we can share my refrigerator and I’ll pretend not to be pissed when you drink my beer and leave your make up all over my bathroom. Because you want to love her. You want to be the one to hold her when she decides, fuck it. today is the day I decide to disassociate. You want to be the one to kiss her wounds, tuck her hair behind her ear, looking into her eyes saying,
hey, your brake lines? I’ll fix that shit.
And she starts to love you back, but you start to realize her brake lines are as complicated and rusted as a ’67 Nova left in a Florida swamp. You start to think you aren’t equipped for aged classics. you say to her,
fuck. your brake lines.
But you think, fuck it. Why? Her love. Holy fuck, her love. Her love is like a super fucking nova. Cliche? Yeah, but she makes your body feel like it’s pulsating through the Hawaiian Islands on ecstasy. And she makes your mind so. fucking. foggy. Her laugh, her smile, her voice. It’s like magnetic energy you read about in science studies, except this affects your emotions. She manages to get behind your walls, she manages to fill all your cracks with this crazy, wild, unadulterated love. To you, it’s so intoxicating it fills you with the desire to ditch your Honda and hop in her classic. But, that makes you uneasy, you don’t understand those models. So you think.
Fuck my brake lines.
And suddenly, as quickly as you felt the high of her super nova, your shared world turns into a black hole. Her eyes start to reflect back to you something foreign. Terrifying, almost, but you see a sad, little, hurt creature and you swear at night when you look at her hand on your chest her nails are no longer green. She starts to become distant. She starts to cry in the shower, she grows short with you, she struggles to find the words to make you understand, she’s starting to put her make up in her bags and your bathroom is now empty of her colourful chaos. You try to stop…Now you’re starting to think,
fuck. Where are my brakes?
You get so foggy, you’re not sure if it’s a mental hurricane or fear, so you fight. A lot. You scream at her, you tell her she’s pathetic, useless, that you don’t know this girl anymore because for a moment it opens up a calm in your foggy fancy world. All the while in front of you, you watch her world click together, you watch her brake. And that broken part of her you saw for weakness corrects itself and you think,
You don’t know how to tell her your brakes aren’t working and this is only the emergency brake, this is only until you figure out what’s going on because the green of her nails made you foggy because they’re no longer braking. Fuck, fuck, why can’t i stop?
So you pull the emergency brake.
While you sit and wait for the dust to clear, before you can finish questioning your intermediate mechanic skills, you get snapped back to reality by the sound of a rumbling. The sound of a fleeting classic. You’re empty of her. She left your dreams with a note,
“fuck your brakes.”
Fuck your brakes. You miss her. You start taking apart your engine, trying to figure out what went wrong. You try to figure out why this girl with the green finger nails ruined you with her untamed passion. But then you start to realize the entire time, you were trying to fix her brakes with the lines from yours because you wanted her to change, you knew you couldn’t love her like she loved you because her fucking brakes were drenched in salt and rusted in a green shade that shadowed a raw life that could have been perfect. But fuck.
Now I’m left here, trying to remember the words she was singing when I cooed her into my arms and away from her stage. Because I’m pretty sure she was already singing,
fuck your brakes.
Well, that was pretty surreal. I have to tell you that I was listening to a playlist on Spotify entitled “Sleep” with song entitled “Sleepy Time” for Massage Therapy, & it seemed to flow with the rhythm of your story. Your words sound like they have a beat to them, if you have a book of these stories, I’d like to see them. I know this is gonna sound a bit cliche, but seriously, your words move me. It almost sounds like Spoken Word poem. If you perform that in a coffee shop, or an Open Mic night, you’d get a crowd of people who’s hearts were moved.
Wow! This resonates so personally, is beautifully written, and is pure art. True raw emotion. Thank you for this. You have touched another’s heart at a fundamental level. Gratitude and love.
@resist, This piece really flows well – it felt just like a car with no brakes. Surging with building intensity, only to come crashing to a sudden and jarring halt. The character of it all, it’s got a very Bukowski feeling.
And I loved your car metaphors.
“To you, it’s so intoxicating it fills you with the desire to ditch your Honda and hop in her classic. ”
I’ve been there for sure.
@resist, it’s very gritty, but also very honest and real. It’s visceral, tangible. Often dealing with matters of intoxication – love, booze, some combination of both, usually. Also, he tends to curse a lot, with great effect :P But it all gives it a lot of character, all its own.