I would like to erase this weekend, but -- what else is new? -- I've got impossible desires.
An unforgiving light has been illuminating the truth; the faults and flaws and problems festering in those around me have been displayed in glaring fluorescents. It's not flattering. I'm not impressed.
Nothing has gone well but I know that what's gone wrong could be worse. It can always be worse. I hope it doesn't get any worse.
It's hard to pinpoint why my skin is crawling. It's noon, it's Monday, and my skin hurts like there are millipedes creeping through layers of my flesh, with their ugly, sharp feet leaving tiny and angry blisters too deep to scratch. My stomach is in the kind of knots I don't know how to untie, the kind of knots that usually require the rope to be cut, the kind of knots that are tied to last forever. My eyelids are heavy. My breath is short. My lungs are uninterested in this shit, and they don't want to cooperate.
It's invasion, maybe-- that feeling of everyone being closer than they ought to be, the feeling of having no safe zone, knowing that there isn't an easy way out, knowing that people want to let themselves in.
It's protection, maybe -- reminding myself that no matter how much they think they know, they don't know anything important about me, consoling myself with the knowledge that I've never betrayed my secrets, that I've got stories they'll never get to hear, that I've got skeletons in my closet that I don't have to let out.
It's discontent, maybe -- knowing that this isn't what I want, this isn't the world I want.
I almost want to break, I almost want to snap just to show someone, anyone, that there's only so much I can tolerate... to show that I've got respect for myself and I don't have to be what you want me to be, I don't have to be who you think I should be, I don't have to take care of you anymore, I don't have to provide for anyone...
And fuck... I get these letters, these thank yous, these I love yous, these I haven't/won't/will never forget yous, and I get these things like you're the only one who I can talk to and I know it's been a long time, but I need you now...
But you don't need me, and you really should forget me, and stop thanking me, and don't kid yourself, I never loved you.
No, I'm not that type, I try to give and of course I care, but I'm not holding anyone deep in my heart in any romanticized dream of eternity. I'm over everyone I've ever been with and I don't want to be a light in your sky.
I'm trying to do it differently this time, I'm trying to treat this one like a lady, I'm trying to not act like the dog I can be, but I don't know who I am if I'm not, at least sometimes, a fucked up woman. I've got a lasso around Venus and I want to pull her in and give her to you, but I'm stretched like a belt of asteroids, stretched like a cosmic rubber band, I've extended my body the length of the solar system and I've still got one foot planted on Neptune.
It's dark and it's blue and it's all delusion and fantasy and the fog of enchantment and deception. It's home sweet home and it's where I belong; this train doesn't run on the tracks that you see, and it doesn't stop at the crossings. Hitch a ride for awhile, but there's no promise you'll be able to get off in one piece.
I need an eraser.
An unforgiving light has been illuminating the truth; the faults and flaws and problems festering in those around me have been displayed in glaring fluorescents. It's not flattering. I'm not impressed.
Nothing has gone well but I know that what's gone wrong could be worse. It can always be worse. I hope it doesn't get any worse.
It's hard to pinpoint why my skin is crawling. It's noon, it's Monday, and my skin hurts like there are millipedes creeping through layers of my flesh, with their ugly, sharp feet leaving tiny and angry blisters too deep to scratch. My stomach is in the kind of knots I don't know how to untie, the kind of knots that usually require the rope to be cut, the kind of knots that are tied to last forever. My eyelids are heavy. My breath is short. My lungs are uninterested in this shit, and they don't want to cooperate.
It's invasion, maybe-- that feeling of everyone being closer than they ought to be, the feeling of having no safe zone, knowing that there isn't an easy way out, knowing that people want to let themselves in.
It's protection, maybe -- reminding myself that no matter how much they think they know, they don't know anything important about me, consoling myself with the knowledge that I've never betrayed my secrets, that I've got stories they'll never get to hear, that I've got skeletons in my closet that I don't have to let out.
It's discontent, maybe -- knowing that this isn't what I want, this isn't the world I want.
I almost want to break, I almost want to snap just to show someone, anyone, that there's only so much I can tolerate... to show that I've got respect for myself and I don't have to be what you want me to be, I don't have to be who you think I should be, I don't have to take care of you anymore, I don't have to provide for anyone...
And fuck... I get these letters, these thank yous, these I love yous, these I haven't/won't/will never forget yous, and I get these things like you're the only one who I can talk to and I know it's been a long time, but I need you now...
But you don't need me, and you really should forget me, and stop thanking me, and don't kid yourself, I never loved you.
No, I'm not that type, I try to give and of course I care, but I'm not holding anyone deep in my heart in any romanticized dream of eternity. I'm over everyone I've ever been with and I don't want to be a light in your sky.
I'm trying to do it differently this time, I'm trying to treat this one like a lady, I'm trying to not act like the dog I can be, but I don't know who I am if I'm not, at least sometimes, a fucked up woman. I've got a lasso around Venus and I want to pull her in and give her to you, but I'm stretched like a belt of asteroids, stretched like a cosmic rubber band, I've extended my body the length of the solar system and I've still got one foot planted on Neptune.
It's dark and it's blue and it's all delusion and fantasy and the fog of enchantment and deception. It's home sweet home and it's where I belong; this train doesn't run on the tracks that you see, and it doesn't stop at the crossings. Hitch a ride for awhile, but there's no promise you'll be able to get off in one piece.
I need an eraser.
VIEW 5 of 5 COMMENTS
moonlil:
Though i wish you weren't in despair you're words are very poetic.
daniel517:
Life is a tempest. You navigate the storm quite well.