i feel incredibly empty today.
i mean, not totally empty. like, all of the art stuff and intelligent stuff and continuing-to-want-to-live stuff is still there and functioning at peak efficiency, but i got that sadness still that i can't let go.
i said last night that i wasn't an emo boy. i'm an artist, i don't whine, i brood. haha. therefore, i am cooler than emo.
last night was strange. beautiful on many levels. confusing on some levels, strangely comforting on others... sometimes i feel like i am so far beyond damaged that all i can do is just keep moving forward and try not to hurt anybody.
i totally got it when she said that she was mean because she didn't want people to get close to her and get hurt. it makes sense. it's backwards thinking, but that's probably why i think it makes sense.
maybe i'm just assuming she knows what she's talking about because she bought me tacos.
why do pretty things cause such pain?
why are pretty things so irrestible?
has anyone else ever walked right into a life-size self-portrait of the girl that stomped their heart, or is that just the kind of thing that happens to me?
why is it that my head knows damn well that it wasn't worth a damn but the rest of me can't figure it out?
she pulled me into the elevator and kissed me all the way to the third floor... she smelled like PEZ candy... so right, but so strange, so confusing, why can't you just throw away all of the battle damage? let it go, let it drift, forget and don't hold a grudge?
why can't you just sit on the radiator, looking out over all of boston in the dark with the girl who smells like PEZ and be happy that for some damned reason this girl finds you attractive? the conversation still plays in your head, down to the syllable
"you're nice for a punk."
"if you want to treat me bad, i can spit on you."
i'm living the memories that shape a life that was worth living, but all those nights, those faces, those tears and you get a boy and a girl, insulated and sealed off, giving themselves away to each other but keeping enough things inside that they'll be whole again when the damn thing comes crashing down.
they are like broken characters in a leonard cohen song, sharing a bed and a smile and the morning after, together in the walled-off loneliness.
it would be so easy if we were just animals. the attraction is in the scent and the sight and the way she moves and the power struggle. the physicality is the language we speak in the dark. all of her strength meaning nothing at all compared to mine, but the look in her eyes hitting like a bullet...
and then you realize, that we're not animals at all, that morning is here and one of us has got to fuck off to work for a crazy-important meeting and as he washes off the make-up and stumbles onto the train, he thinks about the smile, the sunshine and the last kiss...
and knows he hasn't got a fucking clue about what he is doing, nor why he is filled with a milion fucked-up thoughts but yet, can't wait to see her again.
***
the highschool sweetheart wrote these lines in a wonderful "teen-angst" poem a bunch of years ago, i will always love them:
"romantics,
they'll lick bleeding wrists,
though,
they'd slit their own."
***
edited to add that my feet smell so fucking bad right now that i am seriously considering amputating them.
(and now, back to leonard cohen).
i mean, not totally empty. like, all of the art stuff and intelligent stuff and continuing-to-want-to-live stuff is still there and functioning at peak efficiency, but i got that sadness still that i can't let go.
i said last night that i wasn't an emo boy. i'm an artist, i don't whine, i brood. haha. therefore, i am cooler than emo.
last night was strange. beautiful on many levels. confusing on some levels, strangely comforting on others... sometimes i feel like i am so far beyond damaged that all i can do is just keep moving forward and try not to hurt anybody.
i totally got it when she said that she was mean because she didn't want people to get close to her and get hurt. it makes sense. it's backwards thinking, but that's probably why i think it makes sense.
maybe i'm just assuming she knows what she's talking about because she bought me tacos.
why do pretty things cause such pain?
why are pretty things so irrestible?
has anyone else ever walked right into a life-size self-portrait of the girl that stomped their heart, or is that just the kind of thing that happens to me?
why is it that my head knows damn well that it wasn't worth a damn but the rest of me can't figure it out?
she pulled me into the elevator and kissed me all the way to the third floor... she smelled like PEZ candy... so right, but so strange, so confusing, why can't you just throw away all of the battle damage? let it go, let it drift, forget and don't hold a grudge?
why can't you just sit on the radiator, looking out over all of boston in the dark with the girl who smells like PEZ and be happy that for some damned reason this girl finds you attractive? the conversation still plays in your head, down to the syllable
"you're nice for a punk."
"if you want to treat me bad, i can spit on you."
i'm living the memories that shape a life that was worth living, but all those nights, those faces, those tears and you get a boy and a girl, insulated and sealed off, giving themselves away to each other but keeping enough things inside that they'll be whole again when the damn thing comes crashing down.
they are like broken characters in a leonard cohen song, sharing a bed and a smile and the morning after, together in the walled-off loneliness.
it would be so easy if we were just animals. the attraction is in the scent and the sight and the way she moves and the power struggle. the physicality is the language we speak in the dark. all of her strength meaning nothing at all compared to mine, but the look in her eyes hitting like a bullet...
and then you realize, that we're not animals at all, that morning is here and one of us has got to fuck off to work for a crazy-important meeting and as he washes off the make-up and stumbles onto the train, he thinks about the smile, the sunshine and the last kiss...
and knows he hasn't got a fucking clue about what he is doing, nor why he is filled with a milion fucked-up thoughts but yet, can't wait to see her again.
***
the highschool sweetheart wrote these lines in a wonderful "teen-angst" poem a bunch of years ago, i will always love them:
"romantics,
they'll lick bleeding wrists,
though,
they'd slit their own."
***
edited to add that my feet smell so fucking bad right now that i am seriously considering amputating them.
(and now, back to leonard cohen).
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maybe i can put make up on the vertical labret and tell them its a big mole... or cancer...