[I prefer you]

The question is not

did we make a mistake?

the question is not
at all, more like I have a
question
in general, but i don't know what that means.

I guess we are like that, soft
usually. I guess I forgot some things though,
like the way that feels or how it can be
to trust
a human.

But the way you are is like the way your throat feels better after you drink tea when you are sick, even when you are the person who does not like tea, like we don't. Something between what things usually are like. But I remember and I know differently. But this does not change

how it feels
when humans love.

Dreams and things...

Let's face it.

I haven't been writing because I can't/don't want to deal with thinking about the things I need to really think about and maybe part of that is a lack of ability to do that on my own anymore. I can't deal with all of it on my own anymore. A word that comes up when I mention things I need to talk about is "strong," when really I feel like the strongest thing I've done the last few days is say "maybe this is not something I can handle on my own." I have been having crazy memorable dreams about deleting my livejournal, frying eggs in the living room, having some teenage boys stab silver polished knives through my front door, and most recently a dream about having a lucid dream about my teeth falling out. I am talking to myself all the time and it's exhausting me.

I feel as I write this that it lacks authenticity, like even now I am writing with a shield, hoping to keep myself safe from saying too much, from too much self judgment, too much of things I shouldn't worry about when I write but that I always do. I am not feeling 'poetic' lately... I just feel super human. Not like SUPER HUMAN. But like I am hyper aware of how human I am and I am working really hard to reconcile this.



Anywhere I Lay My Head...

Heartbreak Hangover Pt. 1

The walls are lighter now, less of you, less of me, less of the usness that is haunting me, less of the usness that is useless to think of now. The walls are covered now in nothing but what used to be but should never be again, covered in the reminder of how some things go on for so long after they should end, covered in your cowardice and inability to say how you actually feel. And that's okay. Because I already knew.

If I could erase anybody, it would have to be you. I would be Jim Carrey, and you would have destroyed me. But this is not a movie. This is just me and I'm just here with my cat realizing it had been there all along, and I was so stubborn to hold on, and I was dumb to think of hope around my wrist as having power. It is what it is, really.

This is all that I will write of you, at least on purpose. You are not like the others. You do not get a future. You are gone now, nothing but a dream, nothing but a very distant memory, nothing but the fuzz between the stations. You don't get to have me. You get nothing.

Wet Filters

Comparative, cruel. Something in between all of these things. Doesn't it get lost in translation? Even when you know exactly how you feel and you're with someone you know isn't there to judge you and you're telling your best girl friend about how it is and how it goes and she's giving her two cents and she's right--- but at the same time nobody knows. Nobody is in the quiet with you. Even the people who know you best don't know you but through filters of your willingness to share. Remember how she told you how you can never actually see your face? It's exactly like that. Only you and God who is in you already will ever know. You are sharing and being yourself and it means nothing. At the end of the day, we will always, always be alone. Unless we are dancing in the same light and our "selves" dissipate into something more "meant to be" and we will be together divinely and we will tell people about how there is no cruelty and nobody will know what they mean because they don't know what we're doing. And even when I see you, I know you will never see me.

There's no way to be clear. We are using soggy filters.

In the bottom of the barrel of gunpowder, I hid my softness. There was nothing more than that, nothing simpler. There's not much to anything at all, is how I feel, in general. About all things, I've always been sure. I know where they come from. I see how they are made. I see how things go, and I know my way. When I see the trails being covered in pebbles and leaves, I still see that trail. I'm not trying to blaze my own--- I'm trying to go down that trail, trying to find you, trying to sweep the trail so you're not afraid to turn back around once you've let it all out, whatever 'it' is, whatever you need to have happen, and after it happens, i will walk you back through the trail but I swear it'll be different this time, look different: "your love will be, safe with me."