I am the lingering memory of the moments that they probably have forgotten.
I keep them to have some sort of record that they at one time were real.
I am the scrapbook,
they can forget all they want,
but I remember so that in the curl if time, they stay real.



*Fall2011

Old enough that I won't allow myself to believe in dreams anymore.
Now I just feel lost, even though I don't have anywhere to go.



*Fall2010

Running errands on a rainy day
the smell of your leather seats
Your warm thigh where I rested my hand.
The two of us, a loving couple, together with no one else in the world.

It's been years, but I will always remember our love.

i still want to thank you, even though I'll never be close enough to smell you again.




*Fall2010

I keep flip flopping between thinking I could deserve something and knowing that I will always be left wanting something I can never truly have.
The evidence of past moments where I had everything ruin my expectations of always having nothing.
Affection, it's such a huge side of what I define as happiness...yet when I have had it, I still find myself wanting more. Or at least something slightly different from what I already had.
My first love, my first proposal, and the moment that is identical to both where I knew it wasn't real.
Slap of reality turns my eyes down again, my life is only the next foot step...and they all end up being the same leading me no where.




*Fall2012

I believe too much in my own Insignificance.
I spend too much time drowning out my own voice with alcohol.
I procrastinate on my own responsibilities.
I smoke too many cigarettes just to have something that passes the time between gulps.
I live too long in my memories.
I superimpose too much of what I thought I wanted onto what I have now.
I believe I am failing at everything I do yet act like I do everything better than them.
I live in a cluttered mess.
I pretend no one notices my obvious deficiencies.
I do things to get attention by hiding in plain sight.
I have real voices in my head.
I talk to myself, actually more like I scream at myself often.
I use other people's names as an escape word.
I secretly believe I am more important than I care to admit.
I foolishly think I deserve more.
I ignore my health.
I fantasize about things I would never want to actually participate in.
I still imagine I can be loved.
I sometimes believe women want me even when they already have someone.
I expect there will be magical occurrence in my life that will make me happy.
I enjoy causing myself physical pain if some aspect of it supposedly makes me stronger.
I long to have my life sacrificed if it means someone I love will survive longer.
I am jealous of my closest friends for being farther along in life and am obvious about it.
I spiral myself down to diminish the fear of falling.
I hate what I see in the mirror.
I believe I am destined for failure based on my genetics.
I drive too fast.
I often believe my way is the better way, until proven otherwise.
I torture myself constantly, in my head.
I ignore anything that I feel I don't know enough about to solve.
I find comfort in imagining being smashed into an unrecognizable blob of human remains.

This is the only existence I know. This is my normal.



*Summer2012