beth motherfucking kirby.

b thang.

SHUTUP in my boudoir

13.8.05

empty dishes

the sex was silent.
we would press into each other night after sodden night, and each time her dark hair tented over squared awkward shoulders would make the rasping sound of silk over cardboard as it slid across our skin, so loud it near deafened you in the red-coloured room with red-coloured sex shining like ripe, taught berries in the last of summer's evenings, when it rains and the sky is the colour of gunpowder.

in your mind you can see a girl's face.
it is pale and pressed upwards, perhaps as if it is rising from a milky depth.
it is smoothed over, the way memory paints, and you aren't quite sure of the lines of her nose.
the imprint of the girl's face reminds you of handprints in rolling flour. dry and powder and stuck.
you see black-rimmed eyes and dark hair and red matte lips and all you recall is the rain and the silken pavement studden in chewing gum, and the sex.
her rough skin was always tepid and dry, and you smell the memory of suffocating powder. the smell of talcum reminds you of lilac decorations and tins of hairspray. using the word tin instead of can appeals to you still, even though she never noticed such nuances.
she wasnt beautiful and her lips were square and filled with crystalline shapes and patterns where they were left to dry as she slept. you never watched each other sleep, and you would sit on trains and in cafeterias fretting obsessively over whether you could be sure she ever actually closed her eyes, your mind filling rapidly with the image of a curved row of eyelashes swathed like garlands as you fuss with your teacup.
your teacup had a dark red line marching about its rim and out of focus lamps dance against the petrol raining sky.
there are a million things about her you know and she never told you, things she had forgotten and romantic reminders could not fulfil your sense of deflation at discovering a forgotten childhood.
she never interested you after that, or was beautiful to you, and yet you fucked her every night.
one thing you remember from your tenth birthday is a dinner table with blurred faces in yellow paper hats topping them, and pots of jelly. although it was noisy, you pulled your first spoonful from the jelly and in one of those accidental moments of utter silence, the vacuum of the red shining jelly combined with the upward motion of your spoon made a pop, like the sound of bad kissers, a grotesque sound under the warm sixty watt bulbs that were on because it was raining outside, and in that moment your birthday perma-smile fell from your face and landed on the table cloths, wobbling like your spoonful of pinkish wet jelly, and you suddenly felt despair at knowing the feeling of age and explicitness and obscenity.
you never told anyone.
so she reminds you perhaps of knowing sexuality. she is reminiscent too, in association, of cheap watercolour paints and the taste of them, as you were too scared to leave your bedroom to get a glass of water, so you licked the insipid blocks of colour that taste the precise same way it smells that smell the precise same way it feels.
you had sex together every night for awhile. a long while.
the last time, you think, it was raining outside and the lights were on. well, a lamp was on, a sixty watt bulb high-lighting the squareness of her hips and her black lace underwear and making her eyes smooth balls of shadow, the inside of her mouth waiting wetly and pinkly beneath a surfeit of powderly lips, for nothing in particular.
it wasn't sex like that, though. it wasnt pink, or designed to make you feel too hot, it was honest. the sadness of the honesty is what made you come back, you think. her honest stare and my honest hands, you explained once to a friend. the thought of your hands on her is horrifying and you wonder how you can ever do the same again, and so you didn't.
painfully honest, she sat as if a block of powder with dark hair in your bed, holding your gaze as you had sex.
images of your childhood and association flick through your mind as it's nerve endings are effected, like the moments when you are falling asleep and everything is important.
or a good idea.
and so it ended, and you didnt notice until some weeks after. you didnt notice. your powder mannequin of frowning plastic had burnt in a haze of listerine and paper towels and it hits you.
it hits you so hard you stop in the street as people run past in the rain and the grey and your camel overcoat gapes open in the wind and torrential sprays coming from everywhere, and you can't move.
you stood there for hours and hours letting colours of evening and night sink into you with the rain. you start to cry and you realise you don't need anything.

you found the cafeteria with the blood-red rimmed cups.
you found the pharmacy with the talcum powder tins.
you found the lie when she was seven she told to all her friends.
you found the photograph you tacked to your wall.
you found the map with arrows to your house, and hers, and the italian restaurant.
you found the image of her face in powder, falling away in your mind and at last, at long fucking last, you find peace.

one hour and one minute later, you recieve a phonecall.
you hang up instanty, tear down every scrap of paper you see, push your belongings to the floor including a jar of screws and keys and the one girl you ever loved was a collection of everything you hated and it only goes to show
you think
with a smile and your chest begins to hurt and your mouth twists in a smile like two handle bars
that you still love every girl and every boy you ever had sex with because they make you realise how much you treasured, collected memories of, cherished, loved
sex with her.

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13.8.05

empty dishes