I want to feel better about this so I can feel a different kind of worse.
Everyone wants the truth. Here is my truth. I'm wondering when the guilt is going to set in, take a seat at the bar, kick back its shoes, and make itself at home. I'm wondering how you and her sitting two feet away, affectionately entwined, is supposed to make me feel, and are you trying to push my buttons when you don't return my belongings after several weeks? I'm wondering if everything is settled, and by settled you mean no one talks to anyone else and everyone is much happier that way.
I'm going to let this spill. My cup is running over. My walls are foolish, my mouth is cloudy, and I am once again flat on my fucking back with no room to make a difference. I can go to school and I get good marks and feel good about that. I can revisit the spring and pretend that I still exist completely oblivious, completely glued to the car stereo, completely friendly and cooperative. Just pleasing.
I can polish the shine on my cheek before stepping foot into this building for a six-hour evening that makes up my twenty-four-hour day. I know you are older, but I am not a child. I don't think or act or taste the role very well. I do not dream or hope like the juvenile does, so be rest assured.
You ask me not to expect anything of you and rightly so I don't expect that guilt to be occupying your dozy cavity now of February or March or April. I'm going to sit by the windowsill in my underwear, with the morning rays soaking me up, me soaking my tongue in the salt of my own grief, and I'll be sad because you'll never get to see me in this, my very finest form.
My performance, walking away, holding it back, pushing it down with the force of both hands, it means nothing really but it deserves at least a line of recognition.
Your girlfriend is waiting for you. She is juggling the car keys in one hand and juggling the thought of another man in another place in the other. You better settle yourself down, darling... light a cigarette to make mild all the uncertain certain. And you better start feeling guilty and you better remember to give me back my videotape the next time I mention it.
Consider asking for the truth because today, right fucking now, you don't have much anything else, but you've got that. At least you've got that.
Everyone wants the truth. Here is my truth. I'm wondering when the guilt is going to set in, take a seat at the bar, kick back its shoes, and make itself at home. I'm wondering how you and her sitting two feet away, affectionately entwined, is supposed to make me feel, and are you trying to push my buttons when you don't return my belongings after several weeks? I'm wondering if everything is settled, and by settled you mean no one talks to anyone else and everyone is much happier that way.
I'm going to let this spill. My cup is running over. My walls are foolish, my mouth is cloudy, and I am once again flat on my fucking back with no room to make a difference. I can go to school and I get good marks and feel good about that. I can revisit the spring and pretend that I still exist completely oblivious, completely glued to the car stereo, completely friendly and cooperative. Just pleasing.
I can polish the shine on my cheek before stepping foot into this building for a six-hour evening that makes up my twenty-four-hour day. I know you are older, but I am not a child. I don't think or act or taste the role very well. I do not dream or hope like the juvenile does, so be rest assured.
You ask me not to expect anything of you and rightly so I don't expect that guilt to be occupying your dozy cavity now of February or March or April. I'm going to sit by the windowsill in my underwear, with the morning rays soaking me up, me soaking my tongue in the salt of my own grief, and I'll be sad because you'll never get to see me in this, my very finest form.
My performance, walking away, holding it back, pushing it down with the force of both hands, it means nothing really but it deserves at least a line of recognition.
Your girlfriend is waiting for you. She is juggling the car keys in one hand and juggling the thought of another man in another place in the other. You better settle yourself down, darling... light a cigarette to make mild all the uncertain certain. And you better start feeling guilty and you better remember to give me back my videotape the next time I mention it.
Consider asking for the truth because today, right fucking now, you don't have much anything else, but you've got that. At least you've got that.
VIEW 7 of 7 COMMENTS
kellyjanice:
i love those pics
mat8drb:
We all need the truth, even if we don't want to hear it. And what Cambria said: you're always hard on yourself.