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http://www.freewebs.com/miich/

Check the literature section of this great new site to find my story, You Don't Believe in Jesus. The site also has art, photography, fashion, and other exciting things. It's new, and doesn't have much yet, but I'm excited to see it grow. Check it out!

♥Kinn

Don't You Remember Me?

A whore with cheap lipstick and a painted face stares into your eyes. Her own are the deepest green, and her hair is the lightest blonde. She’s soft, almost fresh, she had not yet been so deeply stained. Her soul is still alive, somewhere under her cheap mascara and fake eyelashes. She crosses her legs and closes her eyes, takes a slow sip of her cigarette and a short drag from her drink. She looks at you again (oh, her soul is so alive!) and you know that she’s the one.

“How much?” you ask, trying to be casual, but shaking like a child. Your first time with a price.

“Fifty,” she says, unsure of herself. You agree to the fare, though you know it’s unfair; you’re low-balling her, but it’s a good deal for you. She’s almost as new as you are, and doesn’t even know what she’s worth. She doesn’t even know that she’s worth more than any hooker in the room. She doesn’t understand that to you, she’s worth more than the stars.

You take her into your car, real calm, real slow. Her fishnets catch on something, and tear slightly, and you smile awkwardly at her. You get in beside her, in the driver’s seat, and begin to drive away. She looks down, nervous, her soft, girlish pigtails falling before her eyes.

You drive her three blocks to your apartment and take her inside. She sits down on the cheap, swollen bed and tries to look enticing, though she’s shaking, too. You look at her, and shake your head, and explain. You explain how you’re going to take her away and give her a new life. To her questioning eyes, her terrified eyes, you simply say, "Don’t you remember me, Arienette?"

You Don't Believe in Jesus

You Don’t Believe in Jesus


I. Dying Faith

The old house beside mine seems to have been getting greyer and more defeated with every passing year. This year, though, the garden fell out of order, the house seemed crippled with time, and I think it lost its dignity. It lost its dignity as its occupant, a kindly old woman, became more and more lost to her Alzheimer’s. The flowers in her backyard seemed to mourn the loss of her sanity; the prism of their colours faded and left overgrown, half-alive petals dangling from tired stems. I think that mirrored her; she couldn’t even fend for herself.
I never want to be that old. That’s an important thing you have to know about me. I never, ever want to be that old. I want to be old enough to be wise and have wrinkles to prove my years, but I never want to be so old that I can’t look after myself. I never want to be fed through a tube, to wear a diaper so I don’t soil myself, and to forget everyone who has ever meant anything to me. I never wanted to be my neighbour.

II. A Warm Decision

I was mowing the front lawn, letting the sun bake my skin and letting the summer days keep a smile on my face. The smell of freshly-cut grass was everywhere, and the green stained the white of my shoes. I was calm and peaceful, though distracted by the many cars lined up in my neighbour’s driveway. I kept mowing, though, and didn’t care all that much.
Two women walked out of the house, dressed in flowered dresses and with thoughtful smiles on their faces. My mom, who was cutting the overgrown bushes in our own garden, walked up to talk to them. They chatted for a while, smiling and laughing. There was a lot of pointing at our house, and my neighbour’s house, and at me. There was also a lot of nodding. Finally, the two women said goodbye, hopped into a dark blue van, and drove away.
My mother came up to me with the same thoughtful smile. She told me that our neighbour had died. She then picked up her gardening shears and walked into the house, leaving me to deal with this news.
I guess she figured this wouldn’t affect me. I’ve never met my neighbour. I don’t even know her name. I’ve talked to her children and grandchildren on occasion, who would give me updates on her health, but we didn’t have any sort of relationship. But if my mom knew me at all, she should have known how that would hit me.
As some sort of a sentiment, I mowed my neighbour’s front lawn, too. At one point, someone came out of the house and asked what I was doing. I told her, “I’m mowing this woman’s lawn.”
The person looked at me funny, and said “She died on Tuesday. Today was her funeral.” I nodded, telling her that I had already learned that. She looked at me with an even stranger look on her face. I think she thought I was crazy.
“ I want to mow her lawn for her. As a parting gift, you know?” The woman stared at me for a moment, opened her mouth as though to say something, and then closed it again. She did this several times before walking back into the house, stopping at the door to look back at me one last time, with the same expression on her face. I shrugged, and finished mowing the lawn.
III. You Didn’t Stop Me


Everything makes me think too much. I don’t know why, but I think all the time about everything. Sometimes I wonder if there’s a diagnosis for my brain, and its crazy thoughts. Either way, I think too much.
So sitting in my messy kitchen, eating a half-melted freezie, I was thinking. I was thinking about death, and how people die, and everything that entails. It was confusing, and I was starting to get a headache. And then my thoughts came to my dad, and how he would die someday (he’d been smoking and drinking all his life), and how I would probably never tell him all of the horrible things I needed to tell him. That’s when I decided to pick up the phone. I decided I needed to tell him these things.
I stood in my kitchen, dialing his number, and staring through the window at my neighbour’s defeated house.

IV. I Barely Remember his Number

My dad was shocked. At first I got his answering machine (he always screens his calls), and then I started talking. I told him that his daughter was on the phone, and that he should pick up because I’m his daughter, and it’s his obligation. Then he picked up the phone.
“Hey there, doll-face,” came his familiar voice, low and defeated. I shivered.
“Hi dad. I need to talk to you.” I couldn’t believe I was actually doing this.
“Sure, what about?”
“Dad, I don’t love you.” There was silence on the phone. The most pregnant, terrifying silence you will ever hear in your life. It was too late to back out. “I blame you for everything that has gone wrong in my life. I blame you and your alcoholism and your smoking. I blame you for leaving when you could have just stopped drinking. I blame you for making mom cry, and I blame you for making me afraid to show my feelings, and I blame you for being poor, and I blame you for everything. Dad, I don’t love you. I’m afraid of you. You’re going to die soon, and I won’t miss you.”
I was shocked at myself. Those words had poured out of me, unstoppable, and I regretted it already. How could I say that? How could I? My dad is fragile, and likely to kill himself. I knew that. I felt like Judas Iscariot, giving Jesus the kiss of death.
My dad doesn’t believe in Jesus.

V. Decay

My dad’s apartment had been decaying for years. It was dark and smokey, covered in broken bottles and piss from his late-night binges. In the last year, though, it had seemed to give up. He didn’t even try to smoke out the window anymore, he just let the thick, toxic vapours fill the room. He didn’t try to clean anymore, and it was falling apart.
The day of his funeral, I wore a flowered dress, and mowed my neighbour’s lawn again.

Examples

Dance among the coloured flowers,
And wear pure white.
Meet me there,
And we’ll perform
Like we always should have.
I’ll lend myself to you,
Because I know it’s right.
And even though there are tears in my eyes,
I’ll never tell you.
You’re too proud for that.
We’ll sing together, too,
Because singing is what you’ve done all your life.
You may not have the faith to believe
That we’ll reunite, one day,
But that’s okay,
Because I have faith enough for us both.
I have to,
Or this would be too hard.
We’ll meet again,
And we’ll wear white,
And talk of plans we never made.
I hope you’ll be waiting for me,
When I join you someday,
And we’ll dance among the coloured flowers.
















The thick sand;
Layer upon layer
Of dirty, hard sand
On the coasts of the ocean.
With trembling hands,
And sober feet,
I squeezed the rocks
Between my toes.
A man soon came
To wish me tidings of the summer.
He told me that August
Was a goddess
Meant to be worshiped.
I shied away
From the interesting man,
And pretended I did not hear him.
He stopped me,
Sat me down,
And painted the picture of wind.
He told me of life,
And beauty,
And everything there was.
He let me touch
His wrinkled face,
So I would know how it felt
To touch time.
He let me stroke
His silver hair
To feel the universe
At my fingertips.
And then he sung
The ocean to me,
And filled an abyss
With salty, clean water.
I felt like I was everything,
Until he grew tired.
He told me he needed to rest,
And I understood,
Because my grandmother takes naps sometimes,
Too.
So he laid his gentle face
On my shoulder
And drifted off.
After hours of
Appreciating the sea,
I told him to awaken,
For I had to go.
He did not wake.
And so I sat,
And realized
That he had given me
All of him.

So I told his story
Again.













Spider webs
On cracked ceilings;
Or cobwebs
On cracked floors.
The latter seems more lonely
Than it ever did before.

Dusty nails and liquor
Spilled on windowsills;
In light or in deep darkness
You can see it
Slowly kill.

Laundry hanging off the door
That’s hanging off its hinges;
Remnants of the late late nights
Of broken-hearted binges.

A deep handful of wishes and a
Rotting body on the floor;
The latter
Seems more lonely
Than it ever did before.











Waves
Of amber fields
Tickle the sky.
And as we share,
The growing crop
Is something to us all.
The fields of
Saskatchewan
Delight me.
I long to return
To the wide open prairie,
And run through the fields
Once more.
I long to wear
Something loose and free
Where nobody cares
How I dress.
I’m compelled to run
Through the open field
As fast as I possibly can
And let the wind
Whip at my face
In the yellow summer.
I long for cold winters,
And hot-chocolate scenes
Of community.
A sense of belonging
Where we can all say
“We’ve been there.”
I long to return
To my birthplace,
My home.
I long to return
To Saskatchewan.








A small silhouette stood out against the sunset, as it closed in on the coast. The dark figure’s hair blew like a flag in the sharp wind of dusk, displaying its deep pride. In the distance, on the water, the black flag of a ship blew too, mirroring the small girl’s sentiment. The scene was dark, but for the light of furious oranges and reds of the sunset, burning across the sky and reflecting in the water, reaching and spreading in its wrath, then receding in angry defeat.
The girl, young in years, old in mind, pulled her knees to her chest and hugged them as tightly as she could. Her bare feet and bare hands were burning with cold; she found it refreshing. Her long nightdress gathered up around her feet for some shred of warmth. She spread out her toes and gave a long and dreamy sigh, wondering what the world was.
It took her a while to even notice the shadow of a ship crawling closer and closer to the shore. When it first grabbed her attention, she stared at it with cautious curiosity, which evolved into impish delight. She looked behind her to make sure no one was there, and then she half ran, half rolled down the steep hill to the lower beach.















Rosemary and Time



The thick foliage of my garden
Makes way for sullen weeds.
Time has allowed the greenery
To pass.
That’s where we used to sit together,
Among the herbs.
You used to tell me
How I smelled of beauty
And earth.
You told me my lips
Were like the roses
That flower among the rosemary,
As though we were in an old movie.
And we laughed
At how dumb we sounded,
And how your friends would laugh at you.
Then I’d invite you in
For some lemonade.
I’d pick some herbs,
And walk through door
All covered in chipping white paint,
And we’d feel like we were everything.
I’d serve you cold drinks,
And make you hot meals,
And we’d talk and laugh until it hurt.
But the rosemary and time have passed.
You were drafted,
And we drifted apart.
After years
Of sitting alone among the dying herbs,
I grew tired
Of waiting for the war to end.
I met a boy
Who was kind, and sweet.
We danced and slept together,
But I always saw your face.
You came home,
And I stopped seeing him at once,
But things were not the same.
Your face was weathered,
And you couldn’t walk.
You couldn’t step into my kitchen
For lemonade,
Or dance among the flowers,
Or sit among the herbs.
I stopped picking sage
To cook your dinner,
And I think I stopped loving you.
It wasn’t because you were crippled;
I could live with that.
It was that you stopped being you.
The things you’d seen,
And the things you’d lost,
Had changed you so well.
I didn’t like who you were.
So I gave you up,
But I’m still in love with the memory of you.

And now I’m old,
And covered with time,
And I smell of thyme,
And my wrinkles are deep in my features.
Here I am,
Sitting among the rosemary and time,
And remembering you,
And our lemonade,
And our love.

















The running river froze with ice,
And still, and still, I held his place.
I called his name, but once, but thrice,
But Eternity! in thickness stewed its grace
And fell upon its knees to pray
The handsome songs of nether-day.
The moonless waves fell ill with cold,
And pleasure borrowed from its sheath;
For once, never was the story more told
Than the contrast of charcoal with ice beneath.



Dancing on the blades of steel,
A little girl fell hard and fast.
Her pure white dress, as she could feel,
Was crusting, dusting; it was the last.
Times were hard, life isn’t cheap,
So go to sleep now, count your sheep.
She hung her heart out there to dry,
And let the yellow warm wind blow.
She told herself she’d never cry,
And let herself die, die slow.

All the world is such a whir,
Wish you had no frozen fears.
Have a heart, dear special girl,
Blinking down your sullen tears,
And wishing for the break of day;
Little hands will fall away.
Dancing through, and feeling dead,
Never feel free to fly.
Rest your head now, go to bed,
Cry your little lullaby.












Eating freezies in bulk and sporting henna tattoos, we spent that summer becoming who we are. You may forget, but I remember. I remember how we spent more money on that sparkling lemonade than we made at our stand. You put in five dollars, and I put in twenty. We pooled our money, lost four dollars, and split our winnings 50/50.

I remember spending that summer eating kool-aid powder off our hands, dying our skin orange and purple and red. Freezies, too, but only the liquid (we were too impatient to wait for them to freeze.) God, we were on top of the world. My greatest memories were breaking out of my shell, becoming adventurous. Accomplishments like jumping off your roof onto the trampoline, and running from snapping turtles in the river. You took advantage of me that summer, how gullible I was. You told me you were better than I could ever be, and you confirmed it with every thing you ever did. Every time you skipped school to compare lip-gloss with the girl down the street, every time you ditched me to hang out with your other friends, you told me you didn't need me.

Now you go out late and drink, you hang out with friends and go to parties. We haven't spoken in years.

And here I am, six years later, remembering our lemonade and henna tattoos.























Paint the stars
Across my weathered shoulders;
Let the moons orbit ‘round my eyes.
Have the planets tuck me in
When I go to bed at night.
Let the sun greet me
When the time comes.

Paint me with the stars,
Press them deep into my wrinkles,
And throw the moon’s iridescent cloak
Over my crippled back.
Show me the heavens,
Have me caress the galaxy
And play with the universe
Like a child.

I long to touch forever;
I’m old and worse for wear.
I know it seems a mystery,
But I’ve no energy for fear.
You see, my son, the cloak of death,
Is just as warm as the love in my heart.
So let me reach up to the stars,
And know that I’m okay.

















Write from the heart,
Where every word that flows
Is made of something real.
Where every simple thought
Could be a metaphor, or imagery,
Or something more
Than you’ve ever understood before.
The trees could be your greatest friends,
A grave could be a memory.
For after all,
Our souls can speak
More than our minds can.












“Hail Mary, full of grace.”
The prayer worked through her twisted lips like a sin, testing waters too deep for her reach, walking down street too dark to see. Her fingers, too, they walked; they walked down my body, or rather rolled, and the rain rolls gently down the scarred city trees. She fondled my skin, let it play between her fingers like a thought. She fumbled for my hand, not taking her pale eyes off of my face. She was like a child, discovering my fingers, testing them and feeling them and seeing how they worked. She slowly moved forwards, put her lips to my skin, and rested there.

“Hail Mary, full of grace. Blessed art thou amongst women.”

I pushed her away, gently, let her fall onto the bed. Her skirt was hanging off her hips, sliding down her thighs. The tears in her eyes hurt more than any weapon ever could.
“Mary, tell me you’re ready.” She closed her eyes and sighed deeply. She whispered, then, as though afraid; “I don’t want the truth. Just tell me you’re ready.”

I stepped over and clasped her slender fingers into my palm. Her eyes stayed as closed as my heart was. I pulled her fingers up to my face; she lingered there. I shook my head, slowly, and every shake from side to side seemed to kill something of her. She nodded, eyes still closed, and pulled her hands back. I knew she was hurt. Then she let it all out.

“I love you.”



And that’s why. That’s why I told her I never wanted to see her again.

It’s amazing how afraid you can be of something you don’t believe in.

Some old poem

Blinking down
The smoking gun;
It’s not that hard
To whisk you away.

Tell me,
Hey,
What are we going to do today?

It feels like an adventure we’ve never had
Before.

The transitions of the seasons
Don’t let you go;
Go ahead, knock yourself out,
And never wake up.

I’m a fool,
And you’re a key
To the place I know
They keep what I can’t have.

Hey,
What’s the matter?
Aren’t we going to
Blow out the candles?

Slice the flesh,
Because isn’t that better
Than keeping it inside?

Or maybe that’s your way
Of locking away something else,
And seeming important.

No, walk away.
Wish I’d never
Seen your body
That way.

You’re a kid,
And I’m sorry
I couldn’t protect your
Neck.

You’re a castle
That I can’t breach.

How hard is life that we can’t talk
Anymore?


Mute that;
I don’t want to know.

(That’s the hardest part.)
And baby,
Stop trying so hard,
‘Cause you can’t let it go
That easy.

We’re trapped here,
And all we want,
Is to let you swell
Forever.

You’re already there.

Silence as a backdrop
Never inspired much confidence,
So I’ll push you down the stairs
To win that poll,
Or dance on the pole,
Or whatever it is you do,
Honey.

You love it when I call you that,
Because it sounds like you’re being used.