I need there to be more to me.
Something that I can find in the clubs that have those beautiful galilees dancing into the mornings dew.
Those joints that say 420 isn’t a number but a religion.  (DUDE)
That bottle of jack, which I carry around at party’s that won’t leave me hitting on all of you and busting bridges left and right.
Her big brown eyes interchangeable with bright blue smiles.
Those awkward moments in each shape and form that they take.
Those ideas inside a wrapper that tell me it would feel much better if I break every bit of it.
That epic moment where my toes curl up beside yours after we have spoken our eternal vowels for that chance that even then, we will be together after you take that money off of my dresser drawer.
That I can find that good girl out there to do all those bad things I like.
That dream beyond a dream, that some loving caring, sweet women, who does not remind me of my mother, can make me laugh and wears glasses will let me *** all over them.
That imaginary disposition that tells me yesses really means no.
So I can hate myself every time you want me to be inside of you.
Those hope that my expectations will so far exceed yours.
That the bottle of Xanax’s and no dose won’t run out before the night is done.
And we wake up cold and naked with windows beaming from the flashing occurrence that daylight isn’t our enemy it is our friend.
That my ****** hunger will be enough sometime once I throw those 12 steps into it.
The hope that one-day out there I will be enough not for you but for me.
That I don’t wait for it to be a good day if you text me or not.
That moment that I will be at peace for me, not because of you.
That it doesn’t seem important for me to make you smile, laugh or cringe at my jokes.
But I say them not to be funny or win you over but for me.
And me alone.
I want it to be that day soon but I don’t work for it.
I sit on my computer screen day after day morning from night looking for videos and pictures that remind me of you.
And muddle it down in my little pink notebook with a bland ink pen.
But when I look at you and say I’m enough.
Not you.
That is my dream and will be my awakening.
I hope for that sometimes after the shame and the guilt of each utter more despicable relapse, I replicate just to look into the mirror and say when is enough going to be enough.
When will I find my *** of gold at the end of each rainbow?
I write this not for you but for me so that I can free me and hope that I am less of a painful break up to each and every one of you.
So that I can dream skip, leave and shout.
I want that to be true so bad.
But not enough, to do anything about it.
YET. But soooonnn.