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.

Too much.
Not enough.
Consistently criticized
for an over abundance, or, lack there of…
individuality.

"Pretty baby," they gush.
And you learn to lend out your trust,
but as the years pass, their words become yet another…
fallacy.

So you makeup your make up
because the lies that you're buying have got you tripped up.
You are caught up
trying to trash your…
individuality.

"Just follow these 10 steps! Easiest, by far!"
No.
What it actually reads is "How others perceive you more important than who you really are."
No.
By buying that, you are letting them rob you of your…
individuality.

Too much.
Not enough.
Consistently criticized
for an over abundance, or, lack there of…
individuality.

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.

I woke up wanting you again.
I woke up and I wanted to feel you
In any and every way possible.

I woke up wanting to touch you.
Your skin; your hair; your soul.

I woke up wanting your arms around me.
A straight jacket confining and keeping me all to yourself.  
Keeping me away from the harm I could do if free.

Enter yesterday:
"Don't *touch me," I snap.
I'm doing it again.  I'm pushing you away. Totally cognizant, too.
"Oh, okay," your sadness is evident throughout your sagging frame; your visage.
Your hands slide from my rib cage, down my curves, to my hips (just touching a square inch of exposed skin) where, after lingering momentarily as if to say "I still want you", they go straight into your pockets. Their home. Another safe haven. One not on my body.
I pretend to be aloof to your obvious hurt, when all I really want is more than hands on hips can satisfy.

*So this is my reaction to love I don't believe I deserve.
This is my reaction to fear. Fear of so much attraction and attachment all in one titanic burst of feeling.
So much of every possible positive feeling--and I feel it towards you.
So confusing and so overtaking, my only practical thought is that I must get away from it.
Yes, that's what I'll do. I'll get away from it.

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.

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.

I don't miss your eyes
or even your lips.
I don't miss your frame:
your shoulders, your chin, your hips.
I don't miss the lust,
or the heat of the moment.

I miss the feeling behind it all.

I miss eyes that undress my thoughts.
      Stripping them of every layer until all
      that's left is venerable, naked, trembling truth.
I miss lips stitched to a mouth that has power.
       The power to speak not only to my ears, but to
       every inch of me.
       Shooting hot, prickly shivers down my spine
OR
       sending massive cashing-to-the-shore shakes
       on the Sea of My Own Tears.
I miss a frame that screams "I want you".
        Shoulders that lead,
        a chin that rests,
        hip bones that press.

I miss you more than I thought I would… think I should.

My brain is wrapped around you.
Every thought consists of you;
Every thought leads to you.
I cannot escape.
You are sweetly suffocating me.
I am coming up for air,
But all I get is lungfull after lungfull of you.

Loudly, mercisly, the storm cloud
Stalks overhead in his dark temper.
This way, and that, he terrorizes; he reigns
Over concrete cities and somber souls.
Blowing and abolishing vibrant dreams
Of the sun into a neutral nothingness.

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.

Your eyes, they watch me, following every wrong move I so naively make.  
Tempting,
p u l l i n g,
prodding,
phasing me; blinding and obscuring my, at one point, 20/20 vision.  
You have kicked me while I am down.  
How could I have been so stupid?  
"You want me.  We both know it," you whisper into my untrained ears, unsure brain and straight into my wayfaring heart.  
You invite me closer
and
no matter how much I despise myself for it, I am continually choosing you over the One I really and truly desire.  
Why do I do that?

"In a moment, it will be our moment. The part I waited for. Her hands crept and her face crept, until the closeness was unbearable.  As I am longing for her lips, she is running. My body is becoming closer and closer as I chase and I chase. And then embrace. Her arms encompass, and her lips take me. Her beauty enamors me. My hands on her hips and her body as close as can be, her bare skin, it trusts me. Her eyes engulf me. And I want nothing else, except for these precious seconds not to leave."

To say something is beautiful and eloquence is grossly overrated.

And just when I think that this struggle is too hard,
When I think that my Lover could not possibly want me back;
Just when you've spoken enough of your old familiar lies,
And JUST when you thought you'd won me over…
T H E R E.  H E.  I S.  …my True Love.
"Finally!" I say.  I am out of breath due to you smothering and stifling sentences.  "Some Air!  I can breathe," and I breathe You in deep.

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.

Is this what it feels like to be,
what they call,
"hanging on by a thread"?
Tenaciously clinging to some faint hope that you still want me?
My raw parts?
My shattered self?
I am grasping for
some inkling,
some sign,
some act that will show you still care.
You have left me completely numb and without good reason.

know that, for me, this is unusual;
to want something with every fiber of my being.  
. . .the way I want you.
and, it seems, as if by some brilliant and beautiful epiphany,
I know.
in this moment, while my senses are overtaken by
tastes,
touches,
and smells strictly of you, I am more than convinced.
it has always been you and it will only ever continue to be you.
of this, i am completely sure and I can say it all with certitude.
nothing and no one will shake my mindset.

"Her beauty I've never understood.  The strongest pull I know of is the one that draws me to her. She's part of me, And I can't stand to be away from her. She wouldn't believe me if I told her, but the beauty of another is laughable by comparison. No matter who it is, they do not provide competition. Her love is a strong hold, it is a condition of mind, it is a spell, that has no hope of weakening.  Her body is gold. Rubies. And my greed is insatiable except for by her. For her I have longed. Only for her.  She is my prize, my goal."

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

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.