The raw emotions of a woman by Suzanne Steinberg Page B

and
belief of making something happen, and throwing yourself on a
timeline of innocent replies thinking someone else was watching, it
only takes one person to make something so beautiful become an
embarrassment, something so healing become a mark of shame, a
memory you can’t forget fast enough, a person who you can’t run
away from. A horror of whose who and why me again, and you thought
it would be different. It only takes one person.
    +++
    Assumptions
    There are often a million people all stuck to the
same person, the same in-between moment inside out, the because I
want it to happen belief, and the we are stuck singing the same
fairy tales, the same lives that have become so repetitive they are
painful to re-live, they are painful to pretend to understand,
because it feels too shallow. There are often a million and one
people who say the same exact thing, the same exact thing. And in
our era of communication we become fixated by it, the every moving
clock, the ever understanding facial expression that swing around
superficially like the time, like the repetitive laugh during a
joke, and we fear what we don’t understand but we run there too,
like detectives searching for answers, and like story tellers we
become whisked away by the outline of other lives and the better
beliefs. But it is a strange moment to realize the running and the
questions and the social behavior we pride ourselves on, the broken
hearts and shattered lives that we neglect or avoid and at times
worship to try to heal, only stands upon the meaningless
non-consequential ambivalent forgiveness of stranger’s
accidents.
    +++
    Kyle
    Are
there more people were you come from, so many more that I can cover
myself from them, pretend that they come from another time and make
common day conversation about stupid mistakes that have become
repetitive in our culture that we like to believe is fascinating?
Can I lie to you, tell you my eye color is blue instead of hazel,
tell you I am old instead of young, make you believe in me, even
when I can only offer you empty words to dead ends? Can I tell you
to be with me, cold and alone in a bed made for one instead of two,
inside the night sky where the eyes have widened and closed on the
edge of the ocean, on the edge of a hurricane developed years ago
and a million lands away, when we were safe. Can we pretend to be
safe? Away from humanity again, away from the people who knew my
name before I was born and pretended to love me before I asked. Can
we pretend to be old again? So old we are near the end of life and
can get boundless sources of sympathy for doing nothing at all,
laughing at how close to death we are, pretending to be doctors and
higher professional and grant the respect of the nurses who were
never ambitious to begin with. Can we pretend to be someone else
again, someone who remembers everything, someone who will never
forget, as we carve away the days and the nights on the wooden
trees outside our lives, in the forest we have covered our skin so
thick to see through that the owls seem to have eyes. Can we love
again like we will never forget each other, you won’t just turn
around one day in the middle of an empty classroom and pretend not
to know me, you won’t laugh and I will smile behind a still piece
of glass, and move on. Can we pretend to always remember, at least
for just one more moment?
    +++
    Insanity
    How innocent are you, the inner life the inner beauty, another
person hiding underneath the seams, a second head, another mind,
collecting facts like dust off the carpets and upholstery trying to
find the sentiment in a lost cause moment hidden under the stars
and forgotten about.
    I see you watching me even though you aren’t
here, The lips that have grown cold to me, as they chase me around
on day dreams, following ever so closely with thoughts and whispers
and illusions that tie me closer. And I challenge the dream of a
man who wants to know me, but can’t. The belief in love as it