I hope you know I trusted you.
That I told you things I couldn't trust my own mother with.
That i bared my soul to you because I felt like no one else understood but you.
How wrong was I....
It may be low to do some of the things I've done, but I'll admit I've done them and own up to it.
But to put up a front and a pretense of friendship just to get information to someone trying to hurt me...
saying you wanted to wait till later to tell me how much of a ***** i was?
That's just an excuse for wanting to learn more about me to hurt me later.
If you had truly been my friend, you would have told me what was bothering you/
wow.
now that is low.

Everyone calls me a hurtful, deceitful manipulator.
The problem is, it's really hard to fix a problem with roots unknown to your own mind.
I don't understand what I'm doing wrong. And everyone else is too ******* and vengeful to help me understand.
So fine.
Manipulate me in return for my unrecognized "manipulation".
It doesn't count if it's revenge, does it?

reaching out and realizing no one is there
realizing the one thing you're running from
is your own mother

You flatter yourself by thinking those harsh words were about you.
You don't mean enough to me for me to set aside time to write about you, let alone think about you.

You said you loved me.
But I took that mask off a long time ago.

Do not detain my whimsy, do not deny my thoughts their flying rampages on the wings of dandelion fluff long past its' prime.
Do the roiling waters stop for rocks in their path?
No. They brush over them.
Yet my feelings grow rockier and rockier yet and brushing over them has proven hard....and futile.

You have to realize that your convictions and desires to work toward being a better person and not regretting your past mistakes apply to others. Trying to move past problems you've created with others within your history but putting others down for trying to move past theirs doesn't make any sense.....what do you really believe in?

The words that dropped from my lips were laced with glamour. An unseen mist but breathed in by my beloved was all that I could emanate with what few syllables I could utter. What joy is there in isolation?

Their words were the briefest perfume I ever chanced to smell; brief, but honest. You can never hide your inner breadths and the breaths that keep you held together like a foggy glue.

Blue raspberry and then fifteens and suddenly my whole being is enamored of a scent that is not my own, swirling wisps of a greater, higher being. Alone, yet conformed to a blue caterpillar's wanting to leave his wall-less house yet too afraid to step one toe into greener grasses.

What beauty is there in smoke that infiltrates the mind and bares the soul? Reader, I'll tell you. It is the minimum of affections we are bound as beings to release, the inner crevices of the mind breaking free into a form more beautiful yet formless, more intricate yet dispersed than the mind itself. How is one to define this glory?

Inhaling these words as they are increases my inevitable downfall, and I can more clearly visualize my ideals crashing on the shore of my rising chest like bombs on a beach. Yet words, words, flavored words.....everyone believes them.