Dec 2013
letting go
it’s so ******* annoying how i still can remember exactly how many freckles you have, and how many grains of sugar in your coffee you always add. every place i go has your shadow following me, and it is only after five minutes on the bus that i realize i’m sitting where you used to sit. you are stuck on me like lint on fabric and i have no money to buy a lint roller. parts of you are still fidgeting under my skin and we are still in physical contact even though you are five thousand miles away. we are touching even when we are not touching. welcome to the world of irony. you know, this is like stepping onto thin ice with iron weights attached to your ankles. this is holding up a lit match and going down a tunnel asking for Death. this is walking up to you and presenting my white, creamy neck and waiting for you to snap it. i just want to bleed, you know? stop twisting the **** knife in my heart. everyday i walk on crushed eggshells when all i want to do is bruise my knuckles and bleed out in front of your house, in front of Her. you keep asking me to let go, let go let go let go let go and i want to laugh. you are sewn onto my skin, you are on my teeth, you are in my lips. you are here, you are there, you are EVERYWHERE. how about i tattoo the exact words you used when you told me that my thighs needed to sign the divorce papers, or when you told me i needed a face transplant, on your skin, then told you to rub it off only with sandpaper? how long would it take, then? most of the time i feel like i am the gas station, standing in the middle of nowhere, saying ‘take me. here, take this part. take me, take me, take me.’ to everyone who stops by. and so they do. and so i fall apart. i self identify as the finger that keeps touching a naked flame and burning myself each time. i also self identify as a being stuck in a skin that does not fit me. you are like the glass shards that are impaled in my mind, so clingy, yet refuse to acknowledge my existence. i want to splash buckets of paint on white walls without seeing your face inside, and i want to be static once again without hearing your voice. i want to be able to rub you off my skin with sandpaper, burn you off with fire, peel you off my scalp, but i can’t. i can’t. i can’t i can’t, because in the famous words of Kate Moss, 'you're in my veins, you ****'.
it’s so ******* annoying how i still can remember exactly how many freckles you have, and how many grains of sugar in your coffee you always add. every place i go has your shadow following me, and it is only after five minutes on the bus that i realize i’m sitting where you used to sit. you are stuck on me like lint on fabric and i have no money to buy a lint roller. parts of you are still fidgeting under my skin and we are still in physical contact even though you are five thousand miles away. we are touching even when we are not touching. welcome to the world of irony. you know, this is like stepping onto thin ice with iron weights attached to your ankles. this is holding up a lit match and going down a tunnel asking for Death. this is walking up to you and presenting my white, creamy neck and waiting for you to snap it. i just want to bleed, you know? stop twisting the **** knife in my heart. everyday i walk on crushed eggshells when all i want to do is bruise my knuckles and bleed out in front of your house, in front of Her. you keep asking me to let go, let go let go let go let go and i want to laugh. you are sewn onto my skin, you are on my teeth, you are in my lips. you are here, you are there, you are EVERYWHERE. how about i tattoo the exact words you used when you told me that my thighs needed to sign the divorce papers, or when you told me i needed a face transplant, on your skin, then told you to rub it off only with sandpaper? how long would it take, then? most of the time i feel like i am the gas station, standing in the middle of nowhere, saying ‘take me. here, take this part. take me, take me, take me.’ to everyone who stops by. and so they do. and so i fall apart. i self identify as the finger that keeps touching a naked flame and burning myself each time. i also self identify as a being stuck in a skin that does not fit me. you are like the glass shards that are impaled in my mind, so clingy, yet refuse to acknowledge my existence. i want to splash buckets of paint on white walls without seeing your face inside, and i want to be static once again without hearing your voice. i want to be able to rub you off my skin with sandpaper, burn you off with fire, peel you off my scalp, but i can’t. i can’t. i can’t i can’t, because in the famous words of Kate Moss, 'you're in my veins, you ****'.
