Your perfectly straight, stained teeth. Your mountain of laundry I’d always somehow find equally as endearing as your consistently imperfect attempts at impersonation. Your flawed optimism, your bouts of sadness, your ever decaying sense of self-worth. The time you brought me home a stolen flower, the time we cried over the beauty in the least romantic of chords. The time you drunkenly proposed, the time I threw you into oblivion. The strange tide that swept over us every time I’d tell you to leave, the overwhelming realization of dying love. The times you said you’d find me again, the times I never believed you. You patiently waiting at home for your lady of the night to return, me patiently waiting for you to see you the way I did. Your dark eyes, the lies that hid behind them. My icy blue’s, the lies I told with them. Partners in crime, antagonists in life.
My dearest friend,
You can not ease this pain for me. “Be yourself”, you said, “they’re all going to love you, girl”. Little did you know that was the problem. What if I hate that girl more than anything else, more than the anxiety itself?
What if one day you woke up and realize everything you thought you had figured out was suddenly so wrong? The capacity to realize your multiple selves can be as detrimental as it can be useful. The chemical brain may have the aptitude to realize the difference between its multiple personalities, but it sure has trouble staying consistent. Trust it in as much as you would a confused toddler, for at one point, when you least expect it, it’ll turn on you and you won’t even know until it’s put your life into turmoil and you’re stuck picking up the pieces; a real Bildungsroman but less romanticized heroics centered around the protagonists’ decision making and more of a conquest to fill a void.
Access to internal dialogue is the weakest form of exposure, one that I practice too often. Lack of emotional integrity and mystery will get you into all sorts of trouble, learn to live behind a wall. No method of measurement relative to how significant an other can be, no knocking it down or letting yourself be free. Just a set of hieroglyphics you can only wish to be discovered, while you hide away anticipating that your darkest secrets will be uncovered. Perhaps a modern day Dickens will happen upon your dialogue in 100 years and write a book about it. Don’t you wish your life was that significant and maybe even important; the life of a protagonist in disguise, your subtlest motion becoming a moment that stands still in another’s eyes?
a doe roaming alone
or a Pontianak on the loose
not quite, not quite yet
a loving look of innocence
or a game ending glare
we know you’ll eventually end up there
we could look into your troubles
or just bring them out
are you good, are you the issue
what are you all about
i’ll learn all your secrets
and even guess your age
in the end you’ll regret
feeding fire to the Mage
a creature with a spell
is always all the rage
the moment you think you love her
she shifts to another stage
separate beings like us,
we’re just ghosts who lost a war
cast away forever
to live with our precious sores
Waking up from a dream where your desires live, just a dream with a happy ending, just a life where nothing gives. The solemn silence continues only in another tone and it tells me in the end that I’d rather die alone. I don’t know where to go from here, I don’t want to live in life or dream, and I’m shell shocked and mortified this would happen to me. Living in limbo and tying off loose ends but I’ve burned so many bridges I don’t have a friend. I’ll live a life of solitude, be content at best until life throws another wave at me that puts me to the test. If I avoid it for long enough maybe you’ll go away. If I fail to wake up in the morning maybe it’ll be again some day.
Love is both something you have and you give. But love is also something you want, something you don’t want as well. Love is this fickle thing, something you have no definition for but something you hate simultaneously. Love is your drunken bottle, love is the tear you shed at night. Alone.
Why is it that our hearts let this happen
A new year approaches and we’re still chasing
Something we didn’t know existed
Light years away in another existence
Our hearts still racing
Where we are right now
Head spinning bodies pacing
in another world could this happen
Well that’s that. You said your last words–always the last one, oh typical you.
Oh, typical you.
What I am supposed to do in a situation where I’m in love with an idea? Where I feel I have nothing further to contribute to society other than something outrageous–something that will never cause any one any good, including myself?
A mania overcame my being today that directed any possible emotion into hate for boys and for food. Useless moodiness, really, but here we are.
If you were to ask me if I believe in love at first sight, I’d want to slap you and then myself because yes of course but it will never happen to me again. However, it is FINE in the real sense of the word not the passive connotation normally affiliated with someone with a vagina using it. Why, you may ask? Because that is not the kind of love I choose to value. I choose to value friendships and people who bring me up, not people who attract me just to bring me down. I’d rather have five close friends and have my independent time than waste my life with someone I’m only with because the idea of our first interaction still haunts occasional waking moments. In moments like these, ones of weakness, one must hit the ‘skip’ button and remember why it’s like this.
If you were to give me my favorite food in the world right now I would probably take it but spit out every bit of it after enjoying it so like whatever I’m drinking hot chocolate and wine for the rest of my life.
Also I’m rewatching British Skins.