In the end,
Who tells me who I am?
he tells me that it's him,
and she tells me that it's her.
And this entitlement is surely not universal.

We must decide ourselves.
Horrifically.
But how can I possibly be blind to all of this noise?
When the streets are filled with final blueprints
Of how my life will play out?

For all of us
The words placed upon us slither around our arteries
And up to our brains.
They insert venom into the soul gleefully.
And the poison is ubiquitous.
It's terribly malicious.
Because we must decide.
Who speaks fact
and who fiction.

In the end,
I must decide who I am.
I must dig into my heart with a rusty shovel and push.
My only wish
is that I don't hate what emerges from this abyss.

It's weird now
because there's a hidden meaning behind everything I say
"How are you?" means "I don't care but I'll ask," whilst
"How are you?" means "Please tell me, I wan't you to be okay,"

And whilst I see all those footsteps in the snow and then point them out,
I'm not saying "Look, so many footsteps on top of each other," I'm saying
"Look, there are so many people on this world, and look how they trod on
each other,"

But then again, I am a poet

i’ve never had feelings for anyone who could be good for me. i’ve never been interested in someone where a good, healthy relationship could’ve resulted, and maybe that’s why i’m so jaded, because everyone i’ve ever liked has just been a distraction or a house on fire— someone i know i shouldn’t be involved with, but i’ll give myself just a few more days to run around frantically with my hands over my eyes, peaking through the cracks between my fingers, searching for things i know i don’t really need, and then i’ll dash out and run down the driveway and the smog will linger for a little while, and the neighbors will complain, and i’ll sit on the curb with my forehead on my knees, holding nothing but intangible regret. next, i’ll either get over it, or obsessively think about him and the ashes smudged on the inside of my eyelids for longer than my sanity. i’ve never really liked someone and been able to daydream about the real possibility of us turning into something greater; of tire swings and painted mailboxes and overgrown, green lawns. it’s always been pretending and fake hope and melodramatic doom. i think it’s messed up my perception of having feelings for someone, because i can never take it seriously— either i know he’s not right for me, or i know the circumstances prohibit the possibility of us. it makes me never want to give anyone a chance (i can’t even see anyone worth chance-giving) because i know how it ends. i don’t like having this closed off heart so early on; i’m too young to be this bitter.

His words were lies through teeth, and I should've known. Oh, I should've lnown.

Uncanny eyes, and stupid flattery, and how he made me feel so unique.

It's all so dumb, isn't it? I let him in despite my better judement, and started writing about his habit of never finishing cigarettes.

How he took whiskey in chipped glasses, and the bitter alcohol tasted like his own blood. And how things were always a demsotration of power, control, carelessness- rough hands and champagne smiles, and splinted knuckles, and mignight kisses.

And I guess now I know how much a person can realy ******* over.

How am I supposed to think when my thoughts are like cars racing.
When my thoughts are of cars racing....at me.
How am I supposed to breathe when the water that normally keeps me afloat is now over my head.
When the water that kept my life balanced, is now flowing overboard.
How am I supposed to let you in when the door is locked and there is no key.
When the door is a brick wall I can only bang my head against in hopes that you might hear me.
How am I supposed to survive when I can't even think,
when I can't even breathe,
When I can't even let you in....

To save me.