Mar 2015
I want to feel like your warmth on my skin is enough. That every move you make is all consuming and as I wish intimacy was something I'm good at, it's not. So I sway the thoughts away in my mind like I sway my hips and I wish I could give someone some sort of bliss but the blisters on my memory keep busting and everything I never wanted to feel again pours it's way out and paints the crevices of my mind.
I want to feel special. Like every move I make is something to you. Like the waves that beg to kiss high tide like my tiger stripes beg to kiss my thighs. Maybe my mind is just poison. Maybe the pistol to my throat at a young age set in stone that I'm nothing but a grave stone amongst a growing garden of birth and new beginnings that will never be me. I am always the shell casing of who I wish to be and no matter how much I think I am pushing towards something, I am always holding myself back. I step into the spotlight only to be over shadowed by my own guilt and denial of what I should already be well aware of. I'm not sure this makes sense anymore.
And I am sure that these poems are just eulogies someone will read at my funeral or words that will paint and pour over my obituary. I haven't been the same since that February, the one when I lost my happy and gained a whole new chapter of my life I feel like I didn't even write, that feels like just an added story to make things more complicated for me and more interesting for everyone else. We all feed of off the misery and the interesting, we cling to the things that are a mystery to us because drama is in our nature and nuture never had anything to do with the way I was brought up. It was all mere circumstance because if my parents had it any other way they would've tried to raise me. But instead my father raised glasses and instead my mother raised prices and work and ***** got in the way of new gym shoes and admiration.
I'm not sure I feel anything anymore. And these doors to my future hold a lock I do not yet have a key for. But that doesn't mean I'll stop looking. That doesn't mean there's nothing behind those doors.
I'm living, to live for more.
I want to feel special. Like every move I make is something to you. Like the waves that beg to kiss high tide like my tiger stripes beg to kiss my thighs. Maybe my mind is just poison. Maybe the pistol to my throat at a young age set in stone that I'm nothing but a grave stone amongst a growing garden of birth and new beginnings that will never be me. I am always the shell casing of who I wish to be and no matter how much I think I am pushing towards something, I am always holding myself back. I step into the spotlight only to be over shadowed by my own guilt and denial of what I should already be well aware of. I'm not sure this makes sense anymore.
And I am sure that these poems are just eulogies someone will read at my funeral or words that will paint and pour over my obituary. I haven't been the same since that February, the one when I lost my happy and gained a whole new chapter of my life I feel like I didn't even write, that feels like just an added story to make things more complicated for me and more interesting for everyone else. We all feed of off the misery and the interesting, we cling to the things that are a mystery to us because drama is in our nature and nuture never had anything to do with the way I was brought up. It was all mere circumstance because if my parents had it any other way they would've tried to raise me. But instead my father raised glasses and instead my mother raised prices and work and ***** got in the way of new gym shoes and admiration.
I'm not sure I feel anything anymore. And these doors to my future hold a lock I do not yet have a key for. But that doesn't mean I'll stop looking. That doesn't mean there's nothing behind those doors.
I'm living, to live for more.
