Miniature Disasters/Minor Catastrophes.

HEY GUYS!

karlymarie:

So, I haven’t really updated this blog lately. But, if you would prefer to read about my daily fantastical life, or the relationship I share with my marine, feel free to follow these!

Personal: 

http://erraticrapscallion.tumblr.com/

Military So/Relationship Blog:

http://heybristol.tumblr.com/

HEY GUYS!

So, I haven’t really updated this blog lately. But, if you would prefer to read about my daily fantastical life, or the relationship I share with my marine, feel free to follow these!

Personal: 

http://erraticrapscallion.tumblr.com/

Military So/Relationship Blog:

http://heybristol.tumblr.com/

Bryce.

Remember when we’d play school, little brother?

Remember how we were so tiny our feet would swing from our red plastic Fischer-Price chairs, soles just nicking the rug as we leaned on that white plastic table.

Remember how I’d be teacher, trying desperately to keep your attention as you’d squirm in your little seat, humoring me best you could. You’d draw with your too big pencil; carefully connecting the dots in some coloring book we deemed to hold the epitome of our youngling knowledge.

               You’d shift around, never settling for long, as I explained some subtraction problem to the class of invisible students, you always being the troublemaker. Your tongue folded up over lip as you scribbled ferociously, making the pencil lead squeak against the paper.

I glared at you.

“Stop scribbling! Aren’t you paying attention?” You look up at me—shocked. Your big brown eyes search my scrunched up face, wondering why I’m so upset. This isn’t real, sister, says your expression, don’t be mad.  

But it’s real to me. It’s my reality and you’re destroying it with your childishness. C’mon, bother, you’re 4. You should be able to sit still for a few minutes.

You look back at your paper and then up at me. You’ve made me cross now, so you raise your hand, playing along.

“Yes, Bryce.” I say, all the terrifying angst of a 6-year-old girl built up in my voice.

“Miss Karly, can we go play cops and robbers—I mean, Miss Karly, can we have gym class now?” you plead, nasally voice edging on a whine.

If I was a few years older, I would have lost it from all the cuteness exuding from your tiny little body.

I huff out a breath, crossing my arms and pouting. I’ve lost this one, but lessons will resume tomorrow—don’t you doubt it.

“Fine. Let’s go have gym class.”

You’re so excited you almost fall out of your chair, and you hug my belly and tell me

“You’re the best sister in the whole world!”

You run out into the foyer, little yellow knee-socks slipping on the slate floor. You catch yourself and scramble onward, always with the “bull in the china shop” mentality.

Well little brother, we’re older now in some ways.

I’m not so much the teacher anymore, but you’re going off to play cops and robbers for real, with real guns and real bad guys that do wanna hurt you.

I just hope you keep that big dumb head of yours on your shoulders, because I couldn’t bear to lose you. 

On sleep

11/4

I think I’m screaming in my sleep, again. Something I haven’t done since infancy. Waking up so soaked in sweat, that the cold clings unforgivingly. 

Throat scrabbled raw, like something’s clawing its way out, in protection of unconscious the screams come tearing out. 

Sometimes I wake fitfully, jaw clenched shut in agony, lips sore and bleeding, marked where i’ve been biting them habitually. 

She says I’ve been silent, but this body speaks in opposite with the telltale aches and pains of an untold story held—imprisonment. 

11/5

I’ve been waking in a dazed state, wondering how I slept this late, jaw clenched from biting down so hard, aching from the teeth that grate. 

Try to stop these words from forming, stop this part with screams of warning, where I’m screeching unintelligably, where everyone’s abandoned me— and I pull myself awake. 

I feel the heat rise to my face. 

And I can’t help but wonder why I’m exhausted all the time. 

Am I fighting in my sleep? Some mysterious thing that I can’t see, sucking strength, and pinning wrists and torso to the sheets?

Why am I so frightened in my wake, like I’ve just run in haste from all the things I’ve locked away, like I can’t seem to stay asleep whether during night or day. 

What demons might these be, that constrict me in my sleep, leaving scratches on my arms to which there no owners be. 

I find myself drawn to older days, where I’d scream for mamma when I’d wake, knowing she would have an answer and force this pattern quick to break. 

But now I find myself alone

Forced, in part, to take the blows, and figure out quite hastily why this memmory has shown.

Maybe the answer lies in sleep, all thoughts tossed in a heap, left to fester unprotected in the gleam of moonlight’s creep. 

Maybe it’s just me, and eyes must be closed to see— this is how things have to be.  

3/23/11

Sweat slick all down your back,

kicking legs and dripping neck,

keeping sheets so twisted close,

enclosing us, 

surrounding both, 

holding everything in place,

eliminating all unwanted space,

ending all unpleasant dreams,

saving you,

and saving me. 

Jezebel

You are musk

And bleach

And sour sweat

From fucks

Done to cover

Tear tracks

And

Bitten nails.

You are feigned confidence

Separated

Emotionless,

As “come hither”

Shines in a sweet

Sweat

sheen

From tits and ass,

Alike.

I am not your lovers groans,

Your screams

In early morning;

Your smudged mascara, or

Your dripping neck.

I am not your empty promises.

You cannot release me

like the

Ejaculation

You so crave,

Or the justification,

you’re too afraid

to deny

leaves you

empty

when you lay alone.

Your mind will trickle back to me.

You know I see right through you.