Jesus.
A holy card propped on my nightstand.
I thought,
"I need to be by Myself."
He looked a little wounded.
But Father could not understand the physics of this situation.
Aug 24, 2015
Aug 24, 2015 at 1:15 AM UTC
Took you to my room
Locked the door; swallowed the key
Then I swallowed you.
Rolled up my sleeves... high
Pumped you through my veins... again
Turned off all the lights.
Hi again, old friend
I am high again, old friend
I am high on you.
Apr 9, 2014
Apr 9, 2014 at 3:21 PM UTC
I want someone to analyze me.
Learn my binary oppositions,
my repetitions,
my anomalies.
Find the strands that connect,
Paraphrase me. X3.
Dissect every phrase.
Learn me.
Feel me between your fingers.
Fold me.
Backwardsandforwards,
Insideandout upsidedown.
Memorize me.
Don't forget me.
Feb 11, 2014
Feb 11, 2014 at 1:23 PM UTC
All I can think about is how much I want to be close you. Like, the-two-of-us-on-couch-together kind of close. Like, arms-and-legs-and-minds-tangled-up kind of close
Jan 9, 2014
Jan 9, 2014 at 2:32 AM UTC
Favorite excuse: I'm tired.
Works like a charm.
Everytime.
Ninetypercentofthetime.
I am tired from lack of sleep
I am tired of being soft-spoken, shy, unsure, standoffish, rude, ******
I am tired of people talking behind my back
I'm tired of talking behind their backs
I'm tired of being speechless; not knowing what to say,
how to say it...
when to say it.
I'm tired of talking to myself
[I like to think I'd love some company]
I'm tired of beating my brains out.
Tired of trying to spend time with people who don't want to spend time with me.
Tired of trying to find new friends [how many people live in the world? why am I alone?]
Tired of fake and fumbled attempts at fostering flailing and failing friendships.
I'm tired of being in a room full of people who see me but don't really see me;
who know me, but only a little. Hardly.
Who either hate or love what I am now
Who wish I'd go back to the precious, less-scary, much-more-approachable girl that I used to be.
The baby that they ooh'ed and ahh'ed and cuddled into this mush.
A mush that they could mold into anything
they wanted.
They pulled
my arms and stretched my legs.
They smoothed
and straightened "Ooh, yeah, that looks good," they'd murmur under hot, concentrated breath.
But after all, I was only a mush.
Not a tangible and workable [fixable] medium.
Not sugar, not spice, not everything nice; certainly NOT what little girls are made of.
Dec 19, 2013
Dec 19, 2013 at 2:37 PM UTC
It is all so unbelievably cliche.
It's all that I was afraid of...
...all that I am afraid of.
I remember all of the love songs, the compliments, the stolen looks, the giggles, the gushing, that sounded like nails on a chalk board.
Nightmarish.
The sort of things that sent chills up and down my spine [and not the good kind].
I remember the days that I wouldn't say "I love you",
the days I wouldn't touch or cuddle or play or laugh,
the days that your dejected mien made me wonder why you stayed.
What a waste.
What a waste it was to try to keep my heart away from yours for as long as I did.
What a waste the days were when I tried to pull our thoughts away from each other.
From where they were
and where they wanted to be: intertwined...supine...aligned.
Dec 19, 2013
Dec 19, 2013 at 2:18 PM UTC
To say something is beautiful and eloquence is grossly overrated.
Aug 22, 2013
Aug 22, 2013 at 2:59 AM UTC
I'll let it permeate my parched skin.
Tear shapes hitting my scalp,
running down my forehead and my cheeks.
Sliding down my neck, past my collar bone; down my shirt.
Down
down
down.
Finally, down feels right instead of wrong.
"What's up?"
"Wishing for Something Good."
Can I taste the wetness?
Dropafterdrop [count: thirtyone] I'll let hit my tongue.
Sizzling and hissing upon contact with my desertdry body until I am drenched [and cooled off]..
Dayafterday [count: thirtyone] I've waited for Something Good.
THIS is Something Good.
Aug 1, 2013
Aug 1, 2013 at 3:45 AM UTC
There are bees in my brain again.
All that's in my eardrums is the
picking,
gnawing,
chewing;
the incessant buzzing of their wings beating against my prefrontal cortex.
I can hear them working away, relentlessly, day&night;,
trying to make a home for themselves.
A hive in my head.
They have taken up residence.
They are quite comfortable.
I imagine their tiny bee legs mixing a golden, syrupysweet substance.
Thoraxes and abdomens dancing a little bee dance on my brainstem,
happily humming,
poised to pour the poison.
The sauce saturates my cerebrum.
Thickerthanhoney...molasses.
It weighs me down--adheres me to the ground.
Now I am suspended in a tub of the suffocating stuff.
Jul 27, 2013
Jul 27, 2013 at 4:48 AM UTC
These are the nights that I wish I had more than just frozen frames,
more than just fickle photos,
a fistful of film
faltering features;
more than just snapshots in my gray matter
Jun 23, 2013
Jun 23, 2013 at 4:15 AM UTC