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I notice faint scars on her wrists and forearms, thin lines too symmetrical to be accidents.

Isaac Marion

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Isaac Marion
Age: 43
Born: 1981
Born: December 30
Music Journalist
Novelist
Writer
Seattle
Washington
Wrists
Scars
Faint
Scar
Thin
Notice
Accidents
Forearms
Lines
Symmetrical

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We have to remember everything. If we don't, by the time we grow up it'll be gone forever.
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Sometimes it's a struggle to live in the moment.
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You can order yourself to treasure a moment, to cling tight to a feeling and never let it fade, but it's your brain, that three-pound lump of hamburger, that makes the final call.
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I sigh inside, so exhausted by these ugly questions, but when did a monster ever deserve its privacy?
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But it does make me sad that we've forgotten our names. Out of everything, this seems to me the most tragic. I miss my own and I mourn for everyone else's, because I'd like to love them, but I don't know who they are.
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Every time I go to sleep, I know I may never wake up. How could anyone expect to? You drop your tiny, helpless mind into a bottomless well, crossing your fingers and hoping when you pull it out on its flimsy fishing wire it hasn't been gnawed to bones by nameless beasts below.
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I'm watching her talk. Watching her jaw move and collecting her words one by one as they spill from her lips. I don't deserve them. Her warm memories. I'd like to paint them over the bare plaster walls of my soul, but everything I paint seems to peel.
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I wince at her use of the word human. I've never liked that differentiation. She is living and I'm dead, but we're both human. Call me an idealist.
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One mistake, one brief lapse of my new found judgement-that's all it took to unravel everything. What a massive responsibility, being a moral creature.
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In my palm I can feel the echo of her pulse, standing in for the absense of mine.
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I wish people were willing to dig a little deeper than the surface elements of a premise before tossing one story in with another.
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How do I appear unthreatening when her lover's blood is running down my chin?
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We eat and sleep and shuffle through the fog, walking a marathon with no finish line, no medals, no cheering.
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I crush her against me. I want to be part of her. Not just inside her but all around her. I want our rib cages to crack open and our hearts to migrate and merge. I want our cells to braid together like living thread.
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Stop. Breathe those useless breaths. Drop this piece of life you’re holding to your lips. Where are you? How long have you been here? Stop now. You have to stop. Squeeze shut your stinging eyes, and take another bite.
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I feel an unfamiliar but pleasant sensation in my lips, tugging them upward. This is... new.
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Just... ate, M says, frowning at me a little. Two days...ago. I grab my stomach again. Feel empty. Feel... dead. He nods. Marr...iage.
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If there are rules, we're the ones making them. We can change them whenever we want to.
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I used to split my time between writing, music and painting. I would work on a book and then abandon it, start a band, do an album, quit music, then do a gallery show. Eventually I decided to give writing a serious shot.
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It was fun, but it's over now. This is how things go.
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