May 4, 2010

Filed under: Life,ponderings,Uncategorized — by bariole @ 3:14 pm

Once upon a time you built me a house made of rainbow beams. They reflected all over everything and you said they complimented my eyes.

The rainbow beams locked us together

Because nothing gets past a rainbow.

You built it for me

No, you built it for us

And we played in it together, every day.

We played fairy tale castle in our rainbow house

We played dress up and make-believe games

And I wish I’d known how make believe it was.

I wish someone had told me just how breakable rainbow beams are.

You took your dress up clothes and ran away

And some of the rainbow beams went too

And they never came back.

My eyes went uncomplimented for so long

Everything was dark dark dark without you and your rainbow beams.

I can’t help but think

If rainbow beams are so easy to smash

Why are they so hard to put back in place?

Because rainbow beams change with the weather

And they don’t fit together anymore.

I pushed the rainbow beams back into shape

And tried to pretend there was nothing spurious about them

I played dress up with myself

And made believe I was okay.

And I wish

You could see

The beauty

in what I’ve built.


March 28, 2010

Filed under: happyness,Life,ponderings — by bariole @ 8:46 pm

When my mother went into labor, my father stopped eating. He paced up and down in the waiting room- the traditional society male. The only thing missing was a brown suit and a cigar to complete the 1950’s picture of perfection. His hair became askew, his jacket disheveled and his eyes crazed as the night wore on.
When I was finally born at 2:05 in the morning (I’ve always loved the night), he asked the doctor in a squeaky yet commanding voice “Is she okay?” The doctor laughed and went on with his examination of my mother- although her only concern was getting a glass of water.
My dad’s told me this story a thousand times, and each time he reacts the same way. “I wanted him to tell me that you were going to be smart, beautiful, funny, charming, that you were going to find happiness and friends and love, when really all he knew was that you had all the right parts in you.”
He always laughs and ruffles my hair affectionately, with a faroff look in his eyes.
I try to imagine how he could’ve felt. I can feel the throat constricting anxiety, the tears begging to spring from his eyes, the need to breathe but not wanting to focus on anything but finding out if she’s okay. I can feel him talking forced breaths, trying to focus on a thousand things at once- is she breathing why’s she crying what’s making her cry why is she upset why is she blue?
I try and remember this when I’m furious with him. I try and remember the time when his greatest wish was for someone to give him a guarantee that I was going to be okay. The truth is, no one can give him that. But I try, every day. Every day, I try to keep myself okay for him.

effervescent rose

Filed under: poetry — by bariole @ 1:44 pm

I like to think
that the heart of my hand has not
washed off through life
that it
stayed there overnight and it
won’t go away.

I like to think
that it is
symbolic that it is
a sign that we are

I like to think
that we are
beautiful that you are
the one the only the lovely the
one who makes everything count.

I like to think
that this is
a snapshot
of something

March 4, 2010

{Suggestions Appreciated}

Filed under: short stories — by bariole @ 1:39 am

The first thing that comes to mind when I think of her is it always being fucking cold. I guess that’s because the first day was that kind of freezing where your hands turn red and swell up and you feel like they’re gonna fucking explode. I was walking down first street, planning on going to Dunkin’ Donuts but starting to rethink the journey, given the cold.
I thought about going home, but dad had come home at three in the morning, so mom was currently tearing him out for that, which was something I really didn’t need to hear. So I kept walking, and finally I reached the corner of first and fifth, which was where DD was located. There are five of them in the city, but with public sanitation laws being as they are (ie fucking nonexistent), this was the only establishment you could count on to pick out the bugs from the coffee.
She was standing outside, wearing clothes that had the appearance of being nice at one time or another, but had been worn too long to withstand it. Her hair was tied up with a piece of string, and her makeup was smeared in the way runway models strive for; grungy and vaguely reminiscent of a raccoon. She was a fucking mess, in other words.
She was leaning against the handicap railing, glaring at the world. When she saw me staring, she smiled with surprisingly white teeth and held out a ragged coffee cup. “You look like you want to give a poor little girl a dollar to buy booze,” she said in a hoarse voice.
“Aren’t you supposed to say you want to buy a sandwich or something?” I tried to just walk past, but she stepped in front of me, putting her hands on her hips.
“Maybe. But we both know I’m going to end up buying Jack Daniels and getting sick in some poor schmuck’s hydrangeas.”
“Hydrangeas aren’t in season,” I muttered, once again trying to sidestep her.
She reached out to stop me, grabbing my arm. “I don’t give a shit,” she growled.
“Well I don’t have a dollar to donate to your booze collection box, so fuck off,” I walked past her this time, but she followed.
“Alright. I’m sorry. How about you buy me a cup of coffee? Teach me to fish, so to speak.”
I turned to look at her and sighed. “Fine,” I said.
“Fabulous!” She skipped to the door, opened it for me, and curtsied.
I walked in, shaking my head.
“So can I ask you a question?” I blew on my coffee as I asked, causing the steam to swirl upwards mysteriously.
“Why not,” she crossed her legs and laid her chin in her hands.
“How come you’re not a prostitute?” She looked up, surprised. “I mean, I don’t want to insinuate anything, but you are young and beautiful. Usually there’s a use for girls like you.”
“I applied, as it happens. They didn’t want me. Apparently my boobs are too small.”
“I didn’t know that was a factor in their decisions.” I took a sip of my coffee, but the stuff was fucking hot, so I spat it out and yelped. She laughed and threw a napkin at me.
The rest, as they say, is fucking history.

We fell in love in the city. She didn’t have a home, and I still lived with my parents, so there weren’t a ton of fucking options. Sometimes I’d sneak her into my house late at night, but only on weekends when dad was too drunk and mom was too upset to notice the creaking of the doors and stifled laughter coming from my room.
I grew up on her dramatic gestures and mood swings, her addiction to chocolate, her fantasy of being an actress (what else?), and her constant sarcasm. Her laughter was my enslavement, her smile my only desire.
“What would you do for a Klondike bar?” She asked me one night when we lay on the roof looking at the stars.
“Fucking anything. Those things are fucking delicious.” We’d had too much to drink and the world was that beautiful shade of hazy that only comes from cigarettes and Jack Daniels, her moonshine of choice.
“Would you throw me off the roof?”
“Undoubtedly,” I said, turning over and looking at her profile in the nighttime light.
“Me too. Love those things.”
I nodded and closed my eyes. “Fucking tired.”
I felt her get up, but paid no attention. Her attention span barely outlived that of a fruit fly, and I was used to her constant coming and going. I heard her curse and the bottle break when she dropped it.
“Shit, sorry Jack.”
“You gotta stop doing that,” I said, sitting up and smiling.
“Doing what?”
“Naming the booze. Makes it hard to drink.”
“Screw you. You don’t need to drink anymore, anyway.” She picked up the shards of glass and held them in her hand. I couldn’t tell which sparkled more.
“Fuck, you’re right.”
She laughed, and threw the glass across the rooftop.
“Shit, I want a Klondike,” she said, and jumped.

I brought her Klondike bars in the hospital, and a card that said “You fucking idiot,  why do I love you?”
Ironically, her almost-death brought on a spasm of sympathy from my parents, who couldn’t stand to see a girl in such an “unfortunate position,” as they said. Really it was just that they were embarrassed that their one and only spawn was in love with a psychopath, and all they could think to do was hide us both away.
Which was fine with us- fuck, we got an apartment out of the deal. We lived in the city, a block away from Dunkin’ Donuts. Every morning, she’d get up and buy us a breakfast of fucking champions; three donuts apiece and a cup of coffee to share. We watered it down with splenda and orange juice. She called it “shitlickers dream” and it somehow caused enough pain to cure even the most headpounding hangover.
It was a poetic life, ours. She had a job, and I did too. She worked as a secretary for a theatre company, and I toiled at an art supplies shop. We fancied ourselves artists, but fucked if we weren’t kids living ten years ahead of our age. Fucking pretentious, really.
Anyway, every night we’d go out. It didn’t matter where, because by the end of the night we always ended up in the same place; the roof of my parents house. They didn’t have a fucking clue, not about this, not about anything. We’d climb up the trellis and make love on the shingles, and in the winter we jumped into piles of snow.
After we’d been living together for months, and her CDs littered the floor of my room, and I’d become accustomed to her singing as she walked down the hallways, she told me she was leaving.
Where she was going, she didn’t say, only that she couldn’t handle it anymore. I begged her to stay, I fucking humiliated myself, but she was worth it. She was worth all the shit she gave out. She just shook her head and said she needed something bigger, more fucking exciting.
I cried so hard the night she left, I could’ve supplied a fucking desalinization plant. I threw her CDs across the room, then taped them back together. I couldn’t stand to destroy even the faintest memory of her exquisite existence.

It needs an ending, please help thank you.

February 28, 2010


Filed under: :D,happyness,Life — by bariole @ 11:41 pm

i don’t think
you’ll ever know
how beautiful you are
when the sun hits your face
and you aren’t watching me.

i don’t think
you’ll ever know
how beautiful
you make me feel
when there’s chocolate on my face
and i can’t breathe for happyness

i don’t know if
what we have is real
but i am waiting
to find out

i am waiting
for you to cut your hair too short
for you to kiss me in the rain
i am waiting
for the everything
i know is coming.

February 24, 2010


Filed under: :D,happyness,Life — by bariole @ 12:13 am

(borrowing from Nonnie!)


J (that’s me): Look at my hands! They’re so… strange looking.

E (that’s him): I like them.

J: Me too, but objectively speaking, they’re quite strange.

E: You have a point there. Look at the side, it just goes straight!

J:… what?

E: Alright, look at my hand. Y’see how it doesn’t go straight up? It goes, like, out and then back in?

J: Yeah…

E: Well yours does!

J: Is it from piano, d’you think?

E: No, I’m pretty sure it’s cause you’re a frog.

J: OH NO YOU FIGURED IT OUT! *pause* Does that change your opinion of me?

E: Not at all.

J: Cause frogs are sexy!

E: You sexy amphibian.

…. so yeah, it was a good day.

February 23, 2010

Why is it that when we’re happy, our mouths want to smile?

Filed under: happyness — by bariole @ 2:07 pm

I was thinking about you today, and it began to snow.

(so much more than a coincidence)

February 22, 2010

But the son never shines on closed doors.

Filed under: Friends,happyness,OCD — by bariole @ 2:54 pm


You should know that you handled things wrong. I’m sure you realized it already, but what you did was not okay. She deserved better. I understand if you weren’t happy but you owed it to her (and to us) to at least treat her with some respect. Act your age, B. I’d expect this from a freshman, not a middle-aged man.

Why is it that she always gets hurt? Why can’t someone see how truly beautiful she is?


I’m sorry that you couldn’t cry because we were there. I’m sorry that you had to pretend like things were still okay for her. I love you.


In the car, on the way home, I looked at you when you were talking to my dad and honest-to-God lost my train of thought. so beautiful.

On the phone yesterday I cried after we hung up. I cried because I never thought that anyone could be so perfect.

I want to go to sleep in your arms and dream of you, and wake up to find you there. I want to tell you everything that’s ever happened to me and laugh so hard I cry and make tea for you and watch movies with you and Iwanttofallinlovewithyou.

I am waiting

for the promise

of something more.


I’m sorry you had to be hurt. But it’s hard not to justify something that makes her so happy.

February 16, 2010

Everything’s Gonna Get Lighter Even If It Never Gets Better

Filed under: Life,ponderings — by bariole @ 2:09 pm

Why are we all breaking down?

How come none of us are alright?

What is it about winter that makes it so hard to be happy?

{Was there ice?}

I wish I could drive. I’d drive to your house, daddy, and give you a big hug and take all the sad away. I know we haven’t been as close lately, but I love you, and I want nothing more than to take whatever’s hurting you and make it disappear.

{Did it hurt you?}

I don’t know how to make all of us better and hold onto my sanity.

{I never knew you. I never will. I’m so sorry.}

School is such a pathetic reality after this.

{Why can’t I find any words goddammit}

Wednesday can’t come fast enough.

February 15, 2010

Fuck you, Facebook

Filed under: Uncategorized — by bariole @ 11:05 pm

“Oops! Something has gone wrong. We’re working on fixing it as soon as possible.”

No fucking duh, facebook. I know something’s gone wrong.

Too bad you can’t fix it.

(I’m sorry. You don’t deserve this; I love you. I would’ve given my life to save his.}

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