Wednesday, September 11

Titled some shit

Remember that time you told me you had the kind of anxiety that spread to the very tips of your fingers as you tried to bracket off your disillusionment and apathy long enough to just focus on trivial shit to get by? That all you actually wanted to do was crawl back into bed that morning with a pack of menthols and not think for a few fucking minutes? And I said sorry even though I didn’t mean it. Didn’t know what to be sorry for. Silence. Inhale. Exhale. I listened to my lungs dip and peak as they gasped against the burning. Rawness in my throat. Inhale. Exhale. Deep tongue kisses on the open mouth. Nicotine and salty skin. Swollen pomegranate lips.

Remember when you told me my pink lip reminded you of strawberry ice cream on a hot summer day and I started melting like a popsicle standing by the tomatoes at Publix? And later when you said Heidegger was the only one who really got it—it being the thisness you didn’t feel I could understand about you even though I’d seen all of you naked except for your feet because you always forgot to take off your socks when we fucked. Heidegger never saw your naked body with the light streaming in through your shitty curtains in the middle of the afternoon. He never watched you mark papers with a red pen and box wine. He never had to sit through one of your mother’s casserole dinners while making small talk with your sister.

Friday, August 2

I’ve been staring at this “About me” poster I made in the first grade. It’s been mounted on my bedroom wall for nearly a decade and some of the marker has faded over time. There’s a section that you can barely read now—My three wishes…

I wish all the sick people are healthy
I wish all the poor people are rich
I wish that everyone would be happy

I realize that my six year old self had more succinct convictions than I do at twenty-three.

Saturday, May 25

Damn. Almost time for another birthday. I guess everyone knows by now how morbid I get as these things approach.

I'm turning twenty-three in less than two weeks. I'm trying to find things to celebrate and be grateful for. But all of the blessings I've received are wasted on me. I haven't done anything significant or meaningful with the gifts I've been given. It's not that I'm ungrateful for having survived this long. It's that I'm undeserving.

Anyway. That's it for my sad-face-it's-almost-my-birthday-post.


Monday, March 4

Fuck Your Moral Compass.

I didn't sleep last night. I waited for your words to gut me open. Sink in. Stick the landing like they should.

You know the ugliest parts of me, my darkest secrets--moreso and differently than anyone else.

You're an asshole. You're such a hypocrite. You're a fucking hypocrite with your self-righteous, moral compass bullshit.And then you go around saying the most fucked up things to hurt people.

I didn't feel anything when you said it. Not right away. It was too much to process. I had to concentrate all of my energy on not doing something stupid--like, unbuckling my seat-belt and attempting a tuck and roll off the freeway. But right now, the feeling in my chest is like I got sucker punched and I'm struggling to breathe.

I take some sips of water. I don't let myself cry. Crying solves nothing. I want the ugliness of it all to go away. I want to shrink myself until I disappear. 

You're right. You're absolutely right about everything.

And I'd rather you think me a manipulative dick who tests the limits of our friendship. Much better than the truth. That I'm a child starved for your attention and affection and I'll say mean things to provoke you so that you'll notice me. Pathetic. Fucking pathetic. At least when you think I'm a dick, I'm not nearly as sad.

I don't know what to do. This isn't healthy anymore. I don't remember if we were always like this or if it has escalated over time. I don't know if I want to do this anymore because it's really fucking hard. It'd be so much easier at this point to just cash in our chips and go home. Cut our losses. Accept that this won't work. Accept that we became too close, too fast and now insecurities and mistrust has sunk in on both sides.

That time you read through my messages and found those really awful texts, I had never been so ashamed of myself (and I've done some really shady, shameful things in my lifetime). Saying those things about you to other people is, in all honesty, one of my biggest regrets in life that I wish I could change. I swore to myself that I would never hurt you like that again, that I'd never make you feel like that again. Which I guess I failed to honor.

I feel like you've never forgiven me for it--not really, anyway. That it's a hurt you're reminded of when you see me. And that's why everything I say feels poisoned.Maybe that's why you think I hate you and have something against you when it's the complete opposite.

I wonder how many times I can offer you I love you's and I'm sorry's before they become empty gestures. I never wanted to live the gesture life with you. I hope you know that I'm sincere.

I like to tell myself that I'd be fine if we weren't friends anymore, if you decided to one day cut me out of your life for one reason or another--decided that you'd had enough, or woke up one morning realizing what a shitty person I am and that you didn't want me anywhere near you. I'd intellectualize our relationship: Bodies are only within reach so long as you can extend into that space with relative ease. Shit happens.Maybe I'd write a poem or two about you in five years when saying your name wouldn't feel like sticking pin pricks in my heart anymore.

Saturday, February 16

Shinny Things

Spent the morning purchasing useless shit off of amazon as I attempt to fill the gaping spiritual/emotional hole inside of me with material objects. That works, right?

Tuesday, February 12

I want to hold more in my hands but my fingers are too clumsy. Entire paragraphs slip through my grasps--people pass right by without notice or attention.

I want to take larger steps, but I've yet to grow into the limbs of an adult whose feet are much bigger than mine. So, I fumble. I fall. I get back up because I'm trying to know what it feels like to be a body that travels intentionally.

I want. I want. I want. I. I. I. When is the story ever about anything else?

Probably that moment when you realize the sound of your own stories bore the shit out of you.


Friday, February 8

Wow. Cried for 20 minutes before it hit me: I'm sitting here crying like an asshole while you're having a great time with your friends giving zero fucks about my feelings.

Then I started laughing hysterically because I'm supposed to be a feminist.

And now, I'm over it.