the knife belongs to me and i hold the power in the room
and as i run from room to room chasing your trail of tears i hold the power in each one
the power to rip the keys from your greedy, grimy hands and drive off into a world you never intended for me to see
your hands, the ones that hold the keys- they never asked to hold mine and i never cared to set down my knife
and wait on your every move, wait for my turn to come up in the deck and hold my breath no, actually share my breath give you all the breath in my lungs just to make sure that you had enough to breath
and eat and drink and fuck and forget
no, i never wanted to hold your hands and i never wanted to own a knife i never wanted to use it and i never wanted to pretend that i like the way you feel
i never wanted to feel you and you didn’t care what i wanted
so now I own the knife and the knife belongs to me and I own our world your world
And no, you cannot borrow my knife
“Name your number, Scott,” Cammie pleads to the bouncer at the door. “I’d sell my souls to be at this show, but I’m offering cash since it’s a more feasible form of bribery.”
“Lady, no ticket - no show. And I’m serious about calling the cops.”
“Fangs Drip Red” light up the entirety of 2nd Avenue as Cammie Johnson sulks past the line of waiting fans. Their first headlining tour and Cammie was going to miss it. She finds a bench at the back wall of the building and decides maybe she’ll at least be able to hear the show (and smell the weed that seems to be sponsoring it.)
She sits and cries and takes another swig of the Diet Coke she’s been doctoring. Jarod’s favorite bar is right around the corner once she runs out, but she figures she’ll wait until the rain lets up. The shorter the line gets, though, and the smoother the drink starts to feel, Cammie figures she’ll make Scott one final offer. She’s not sure what that is yet, but she rejoins the line and chugs down the drink.
Scott rolls his eyes when she flashes up her calculator for him to scan. “See Scott, a perfectly legitimate ticket that no one would question you scanning through the door. Now please, if you’ll excuse m-“
“David, call the cops. I cannot deal with her again.”
“Scott, you monster! I did all of this for him! Can you not see I’m grieving?”
“The guitarist doesn’t give a shit about you, lady. Now please just go home. You’re embarrassing yourself and holding up my line.”
“No, not the guitarist, dipshit! My husband! I sold my ticket two months ago because he was supposed to have knee surgery today. A knee surgery that was going to keep him in the hospital for weeks. But you know what happened, Scott?” Cammie is practically screaming at this point and the entire line is embracing the opener before the opener.”
“Lady for the last time, PLEAS-“
“He died, Scott. Last week. Never got the knee surgery and thus opening up this lovely Friday night on the calendar. A Friday night we had been looking forward to for months until they found the tumor. Yep, fucking cancer. Stole my husband and now my fucking Friday night. Make it make sense, Scott”
She’s slurring at this point, but the crowd raves inside and she steps out of line. No need to ruin the rest of line’s night, too.
“Do you want my ticket?”
Cammie turns, and the blurry face of a man shines his phone at her, barcode of the ticket on screen.
“I’m sorry, who are you?” Cammie sits down on the curb. “God no, those tickets are yours. Go to the show. Tell Micheal Peters I’d flash my tits at him if I could.”
The guy laughs. “No, seriously I hate this fucking band. We would rather someone who actually appreciates them have the ticket.”
Cammie looks around. It might be the alcohol talking, but the man seems to be alone. “We? Who’s we? Your not with anyone.”
He laughs again. “Well, I’m waiting on a friend of my wife’s, but she’s running late. Super cool lady, though! She could keep you company through the show.”
Cammie tries to stand up but stumbles on the gutter grate. “What the fuck, man? Were you gonna cheat on your wife with her best friend?” Cammie’s stuck on the curb at this point, but she’d kick him right in the nuts if she could. “And at a Fang’s concert, dude? Ice cold.”
He chuckles again, helping Cammie off the curb and walking her to the end of the line. “No, no. Not cheating. Her friend offered to come. She and my wife were huge fans of FDR. ‘Intense lyrics, tantalizing harmonies, rhythms so fucking intense, a brick wall would dance.’ They ate their shit up. She bought these tickets for a date night, knowing good well I would have absolutely no desire to go.”
“And yet you came? And brought her best friend?”
“Yea, was not the original plan. Lindsey died about two months ago in a car wreck. I had forgotten about the concert until last week, but my therapist thought it might be a good idea for me to come. Lindsey would much rather someone who loves their music get to go, though.”
Cammie gives the guy a hug as Michelle joins the line…… (out of words lol)
I love you
The most harmful words in the english language with the promise of healing and growth.
For lovers, these words are their existence. For abusers, these words are their weapon. The words- they keep people together, whether they realize it or not, and sometimes I doubt they have any good intention. Talk about a fucking power trip.
For me, these words are at the center of every therapy session I’ve attended.
I spent months, tearing eight letters down to their studs and figuring out whether they were supporting a lasting structure or holding up the facade of foundation about to collapse. In most cases, the foundation collapsed before I realized what was going on, and the three words shattered before me I had time to scream them back.
A shitty cycle of picking up broken pieces of something that can never look the same as the version before - with no guarantee that the next version will be better than the last.
They’re fucking dangerous, and they reside in a world perpetuating their behavior.
And yet, it’s all we know to do
and, God, does it feel so good.
The door handle jiggles and the room gets cold. Cold to the touch, almost - as if the silence piercing the room had never heard of gloves. The barricade against the door - the tower of chairs and desks and glitter from yesterday’s art unit - is the only thing standing between an AR15 and Mrs Montague’s 4th grade class.
Mrs Montague is an older woman. She has taught 4th grade for over 35 years and has never cared to do anything but teach. She is flippant with “I love you”s and gold stars and tries only to make each of her students feel known. She has no children of her own, but the 16 huddled around her feet - the ones with tears streaming down their balled-up, bruised knees - have no one else expect for her, and frankly they wouldn’t want to be with anyone else.
She turns to her class and decides the silence is far too cold (and the screams from next door should not be the last thing these kids ever hear.)
“My God, y’all deserve so much more. And of all the lessons I’ve had to plan, I wish I never had to plan what to say in this moment. But know that I love you. I love you simply because you have changed the world - mine and everyone’s else’s sitting around you. Hold each other’s hands and squeeze them tight, if you must. Close your eyes and please. Please. Do not open them.”
And she hums the class’s favorite song. And the class sings along. And the door crashes open. And the chorus is never sung.
“God, that thing is such an eye sore,” Gene scoffs as he passes the new billboard on I-20. “The thing does everything but flash it’s tits at you, and frankly I prefer the latter.”
2 exits before his apartment, Gene remembers the flashing gas can on his dashboard. Somehow, though, he manages to fill his car with liquor instead of gas and forgets the light ever existed in the first place. He also decides to take the scenic route home, in hopes of avoiding yet another billboard practically begging him to be anyone else but himself. Especially if he can manage to get injured in a car wreck, too.
Rolling hills, barbed wire fences, barking dogs, clouds of mosquitos. This is where he would like to die. This is where his car will break down, this is where he will say his goodbyes, and this is where he will wake up in the morning and decide to do it all again. No plans except for the bottles in his back seat, and my god, no billboard was going to tell him otherwise.
Passing in the opposite direction, Stuart skids around what is arguably the stupidest and sharpest bend in southeast Missouri. He puts far too much trust in the traction of his 10 year-old tires and crashes off the road into an Autumn-leaf cushioned ditch. Not quite cushioned enough to break the fall of both Stuart and the bottles in his backpack, but he’s glad it was the bottles that broke and not his spine. The pool of liquor starting to form beneath him quickly reminds Stuart that Jenifer was not going to wait much longer, and the sun was going to set soon. He jumps on his bike and hopes that the new billboard will be lit tonight, when he is finally able to tell her. He only cares to see her eyes - God forbid the darkness steal those, too.
