And I Don't Mean Any Of This

It was the kind of love that made your mouth let out an unfamiliar noise, made a flurry in your chest, but not a sweet kind, the indescribable kind, you do not want to feel again. It made your fingers tremble and shake, and your eyes forget how to water and cry and let this feeling out, so it squeezed it in, deeply. You take that feeling and keep it at the root, core of your being, and you hope maybe that was the last time, but you know it isn't, it is triggered, not often, but it is. It's brought upon by possibly pictures, or lyrics, scents, places, or out of context memories that deserve context, more than you wish they would be forgotten. And I know that feeling, a love that is the control, for all other feelings, just mere experiences to contrast that one feeling. The upsetting kind, that makes your chest feel trapped inside itself, and your stomach twist into knots, tied, on fingers, sworn never to forget, those drastically out of place recollections, and feelings. Plucking tender chords like flower petals, and back and forth, it will or it won't, and one day you twang something dark enough. You didn't mean to, but the induced sound was so harsh and violent it even shook you, to that core that was already filled with notions so intimate that they had only been said one time, then never again. The vibrations, blinded, deafened and defeated. Or perhaps you just weren't listening correctly, it's so simplistic, to hear incorrect, in mutually connective silence. It's so easy for it to be one-sided, when your innermost coveted memories, are honestly varied from theirs, even sometimes clash and contradict. It was one way, and then another, until someone doesn't want to hear that sound anymore, and leaves it, with the other to hear for all eternity, seemingly willingly, and it rings out so raw and aching, so private and personal, makes you conclusively wonder, if they ever even felt it. 
Felt it within themselves, grabbing at a bruised and swollen chest piece, not protecting, but barred to be healed, but it clasped, double-fisted, and never let go and never stopped, holding, like the ringing inside one's head. This never occurred.

I miss the theater every day.

Our Silence

"I stood in the doorway and tried to maintain my end of our silence. In truth I had not yet learned how to hate anyone but my parents. 
I was actually just standing there in love.
I was not even really standing; if she had walked away suddenly, I would have fallen."

Ripping Pages

"I accidentally hurt myself with my own body, as if I were two clumsy people fighting. I held onto somethings too tightly, ripping pages as I turned them, and let go of things too suddenly, plates, breaking them."

I Dread The Night

"When the sun became unusually high and bright, or when it sank, especially when it sank

far below the hills and I felt something similarly bright falling down inside me."

Seal The Spiel

I have realized something somewhat profound. Maybe it isn't profound, really, but it is relative and also at very least, useful. I watch the people in my life, I mostly listen, I talk a lot, but wait a good amount too. What I was thinking is that I have some bad friends, some friends whom are not correct in anyway as a friend to me. I was realizing that I have some spectacular and fantastic friends, who are patient and forgiving, whether only I see it as that or not. But what I see today is that the tiny gestures, when stable, and in the scheme of the big picture, or more substantial and kind than any action or even words that are all I could ever ask for. Because who they are coming from is a person who is not soon to be hurtful or flighty, but steady and understanding. You cannot each time go for the fantastic and impractical, I believe that someone apologizing honestly for maybe something as trivial and mundane as a food allergy, sorry that we had to get cashews on the side and no soy sauce, is far more impacting and important, meaningful and lasting, than say such a personal and intimate bonding conversation or epic fleeting moment. It's good to know what you want from someone or something, because mistakingly you could go for what you desire and crave, which is dangerous and terrible, really. I don't want a sad remoresful, regret-ridden love, maybe someone better would. be practical and true. Don't go for beautifully brass, and deeply and brutally specific. Don't dub this real or true when it's inconsistent and it's everyone, blind selfishness, and countless humans just putting this all a notch below inebriation. Exhilarating is not worth it, and not everything should be chalked up to learning, or forgiving. Cut ties with all which makes you feel worthless, and full of notions so deep seeded perhaps they are better off never again in the light of day. I did learn that people will not apologize for the things they do not feel sorry for. I don't necessarily have to feel sorry for everything I have ever felt or done.
 These are fruitless and wasteful company for me, not worthy of my empathy and worship, my sorrow.

"She never inquired, but she never recoiled, either. That's a quality I look for in a person, not recoiling."

I Rise

 "I looked up at the sky just to see what it felt like. I pretended like I was pausing before telling him about the secret feeling of joy I hide in my chest, waiting, waiting, waiting for someone to notice that I rise each morning, seemingly with nothing to live for, but I do rise."

  "I pressed my lips against his ear and whispered again, it's not your fault. Perhaps this was really the only thing I had ever wanted to say to anyone, or be told."

It's All Happened And A While Ago

Still trying (or at very least wishing) to shake this feeling superfluous to linger onward.

This cloud's silver lining is glistening,
but the insides are dark, troubled and writhing.

I thought that there'd be anything at all left being this residual. But it was too long a fall from such a high pedestal.

"See when you put a shell to your ear, it is not the sound of crashing waves
that you’re hearing. It’s the amplified current of your own bloodstream
It was your self-pulse that created that post-human illusion of me. Your
tireless heart pumping out an ocean of lies and I foolishly tried filling
impossible shoes resulting in my stumbling as I fell into the trap of making
a woman my element. Now I just can’t get comfortable being out of you…"

You Were

""

Second City Same Slippery Slopes

Christmas tree corpses.

No one was even looking into my eyes when they said that
whispering will surely cause you more hurt.

I like when people say it was nice to meet you, but anything further will be hard to hear.

If your stare is fixated on one singular thing for long enough, it will eventually get blurry.

Everyone will wait a lifetime for a person to tell them that they are worth more than what it has all been, not just that they think it.

Wrecked

Some things die and fade to absolutely nothing. "But you're still you because they still happened."

He Said I Am A Burden In My Head

could see it right there on my face
each dark swollen ball and chain
the weight of my sorrow
humiliated just by the looks of it
living proof that sleep and time
does not heal all wounds
I cried by your side for hours
until the air dried my pathetic streams
that turned everything in my face
to wet water and everything in my
heart to cold ice
the dryness was tight and
made me feel weathered
but it didn't feel old
it felt young, infant even
but not a clean slate
as much as losing everything I felt
I once had but never did
and maybe you could see that
as I looked away
and as the sun rose you said
you cannot chose the things
that make you sad
everything, everything I never even ever had

Good.

                 Good intentions have never gotten me anywhere.

Like This

“I say, “You’re nothing. You’re average. You’re an ordinary, average, fat piece of shit. You have no self-control! You’re a stupid, fat, disgusting dyke. You ugly, stupid, bitch!” As I reach the bathroom and wipe away the last of my tears, I’m alarmed by the silence; the voice has stopped. When it’s quiet in my head like this, that’s when the voice doesn’t need to tell me how pathetic I am. I know it in the deepest part of me. When it’s quiet like this, that’s when I truly hate myself.”