I want someone to relate to.
Please don't look at me.
Do you know what I'm thinking?
I'm sorry my eyes are so loud.
Please tell them to be quiet.
You probably aren't comforted by my silence.
What should I talk about?
Do you ever feel something so deeply
you feel like you are not feeling anything?
Is that why I never feel anything?
Some things hurt.
When someone pulls you in closer
they are going to break your heart.
I never pull away.
I don't have a heart.
But it is broken.
You are far from anyone. Miles, hours, large measurements of distance and time. You live by yourself in what you and most people call the middle of nowhere. You love being alone. You were born for it. But the mailman comes. He knows you by name. You are one of few on his daily drive. He knows you receive weekly letters from Tracy, and has even learned some other names too. Do you think he knows that every letter begs for your return? He finds you in your garden on Monday mornings. He cares about your produce. He knocks when it rains. He is one of many that care, that pay attention. The people of work refer to you by name, the customers do the same. There is never anyone new. You know what they are there for. They search for corn, cabbage, rice and you. You cannot beg them not to care. Do you think they care? They ask about your cat. Questions are traps. You ride your bike for miles until you reach the safety of your large, lonely home. The ringing in your ears does not let you forget. They are talking about you. They know not to eat your apples but they will continue to buy them. You wish you could stop selling apples, or maybe that you would stop poisoning them. Why must you poison them? Is the phone ringing or is that your ears again? What's the difference? They are thinking about you either way. You gave up inventing something to erase yourself from their minds when you moved here. You need it more than ever. The grass grows long, weeds consume your garden. The mailman still knocks. Your ears ring when you avoid the windows. He knows you're there because you still read the letters. The grass is long but the pile does not grow.
You are surrounded by people. They rush past you while you sit on a bench that has grown very attached to you. It does not know you by name. You cannot remember the last time you heard your name. You give them a new one every time you order a cappuccino at your usual coffee shop. Everyone is too busy looking at everyone else. No one looks at you. You walk fast, tall, confidentially. You are completely invisible. You were born to be. You are yourself because you can be. You hide in the skyscrapers shadows. They have always been there for you. Your friends are benches and birds. They think you are gentle. You hide behind your computer screen forty hours a week. You do not mind when it looks at you. Does it mind that you look at it? Your mattress is on the floor. You are grounded fourteen floors above the ground. The guard does not make your ears ring so you do not mind him smiling. No day is like the last. Nothing is predictable. You hear everything with the lack of a ring. You are here. You are you. You are alone and you are happy. The mailman does not knock when he leaves bills in your box. He does not care about your produce. He does not remember your name. What is your name again? No one's ears ring because of me. My thoughts are taken up by the way the sky looks between buildings. There is no grass, there is no pile.
People seldom believe
That when you say you’re a storm
You don’t mean a slight breeze
Am I a piece of who you are now? Do you carry me around?
Please don’t hurt me
Please do not hurt me
You do not reply
You know your motive
You want this to end badly
You want us to bleed
You lie again
You tell the truth
You only tell a part of it
You hide it
You can’t lie about what you don’t tell
You should tell me
I can’t stop thinking about the spaces
Between I and love and you
You told yourself this emptiness was temporary. You told yourself you’d feel warmth again. You told yourself the winter could not last forever. How many times will you tell yourself these things before you believe them? How many times will you accept the pain? How many times will you black out before you figure out it’s not the answer? Will you ever realize if you can’t remember the answer you’ll never learn it? Will you ever realize the thaw will not come on it’s own? Will you ever learn that setting fires will only leave you burnt? A humans warmth is not hot enough. Their hatred leaves scars. Thoughts are a blanket. You can not control your own so you feed off of others. You read to feel something. Sad movies feel like a space heater. Every time someone tells you they love you your chest melts. How many people will it take? How much love will be enough? To turn your frozen heart into a puddle?
How do you explain to people that you don’t want kids because you’re afraid they’ll have your thoughts
“What if they have your eyes?”
What if they have my need to die
People talk about time without panic. Time is the cause of every attack. The worst of times and the best of them. The times I regret and the times I can’t hold onto. Time will not wait for me. Time will not slow for me. I am losing every second. I thought of time as a fluid. I could not hold it in my hands. It slipped through my fingers. But time is not containable. I am not the only one it escapes. Time is not a solid. Time is not a gas. Time is not an unidentified state. Time does not fit your labels. Time will not be defined. It is not yours to understand. It was never yours to keep. Time is not linear. Time travel is real. I have done it in my sleep. But time will not let you choose where to go or when to keep. I have no control. Time has made that clear. I am times creation. It reminds me every hour. I am stuck in this timeline. It jumps from year to year. It slows and speeds as it pleases. It is hard not to panic. Im under someone else’s control. It does with me as it pleases. I am nothing without the clock.
I choose who sees me.
Why did you see me?
I will not forgive you for this.
My existence affected you.
Why did it affect you?
How does someone know another well?
How does someone know things they were not told?
Did you see my hands shake?
They still do.
Please don’t look at my hands.
I know your hands shake.
Thanks for holding my hand that one time.
It was nice of you to take it off my neck.
Sometimes I go places or see people that used to be a huge part of my life and my body doesn’t know how to react. Torn between timelines. Two people at once. Past me and present me do not fit well together. Opposites do not attract because I feel my two selves pulling apart. I used to say the only person for me is me, but not even me is me. Do you get it? I don’t think I get it.
It’s like this
I’ve told you everything there is to tell
What am I supposed to say to anyone else?
There is nothing left to say
There will never be anything new
I keep changing
I experience things
New emotions and thoughts
But there is nothing new to say
Because I have said it all
Connecting with people is not an option
Because all my strings are still knotted to you
We both try to cut them
But there’s no coming loose
Why are you sad?
Art is camouflage.
I must wear my feelings on my skin.
No one will know how I feel.
Do I feel?
How do you feel about me?
Why does no one ever answer that question?
The answer must be they do not.
Do they feel?
I never understand.
Someone told me I understand human emotion very well.
I never understand.
Why is almost a word?
I want to rip it out of existence.
I am not gentle.
Do I hurt people or do people hurt me?
I wish I was gentle.
I want to touch something without breaking it.
I think I have broken myself while writing this.
Are people looking at me?
Do they see the pieces of me falling to the ground?
This poor, broken girl.
No. I am invisible.
I like it this way.
It is okay if you don't love me.
I would prefer you not see me.
Do you think about me?
Yes. I can feel it in my chest when you do.
Or maybe I feel it in my chest when I think of you.
We can't forget people on purpose.
That pleasure is saved for accidents.
Sometimes I see people that look familiar.
Untouched places. I cannot keep happiness for myself. I have to share it with everyone. A pure place becomes poisoned by their footprints. Memories of them cover the ground in the form of weeds. I could try to tear them from the dirt but what is the use? I bring someone new to **** them for me but no! Their roots are tangled. How will I rip them out now? I try again. If these weeds were flowers this garden would be beautiful. My once safe place is safe no longer. The weeds, they will grow. I will lie down and disappear within them. They were good memories once. When I was young I never understood why my mother plucked them from the ground. When I was young I thought everything beautiful. My mother is still beautiful. When I was fourteen I started hurting myself. When I was fourteen I knelt next to my mother. We compared our ***** hands. Mine look more like hers with every year. Her weeds grew at home. Home was never a pure place. I let the weeds grow and when I left I set them on fire. She envied me for this. She does not know all the places I must pick the weeds from. She does not know I find safety anywhere but there. She does not know I plant the poison. She does not know I invite them there. I do not want the false image of safety. I bring the danger so it comes at no surprise. Imagine your beautiful garden, cared for for years and there! Where did it come from? No. I hate surprises. I know where my weeds grow from. Those **** footprints. But whatever. I'll find another pure place. Maybe this time only my footprints will cover the ground, flowers growing from each one.
everything is boring
everything is felt
i sure do hate surprises
when there aren't any being dealt
i think this love is over
i think we've lost our lust
i sure do hate the dragging
when leaving is a must
— The End —