where does love come from?

I swear to you that one day this sensation in the pit of my stomach will go away and I swear that the very second that it does, I will yearn for it to come back. That's the thing. It's just history repeating itself. And I am very well aware of the outcome, but that doesn't stop my mind from wandering or my stomach from fluttering, or my palms from sweating, or my skin from bleeding. You know what you do. Every objective has a purpose and no one seems to heed to mine. Its like I am in some sort of giant bubble and I can't break myself out. Someone else has to to do it. But who. No one ever really wants to see me for who I am. Sometimes they pretend to, sometimes they never even try. But time and time again, I slice my heart open for someone to dissect and they get a random spurt of A.D.D. and find something better to do. How many times can a person eat rotten food before they realize they're going to vomit and shit all over the place every single time. Too graphic for you? Then fuck you. My bones and joints crunch and pop and I am self aware of the fact that my body is quitting on me. I will still ignore it. Everything is swollen including my heart and my ability to care. I start to get goosebumps as I imagine running barefoot until I get an asthma attack and double over. Everything is fleeting me now. My worries, my lovers, the people who lied when they told me they would always listen. Like screaming at a chalk board until my sounds turn into my fingernails. I want to cry. I want to turn my fingers into fists but instead I use them to click a bunch of keys. I've never been violent. It's always been pent up inside of me and oozes over into angst and sorrow. I'm trying to refrain from puking my feelings into a mess for you to clean up, so I'll swallow them instead. The things we all do, all for our own reasons, but does anybody ever really stop to think about it? I'd much rather be climbing out of your window in my underwear searching for a taste of reality than to be like this. I'd rather be fucking bald from pulling all my hair out than to be like this. I'd rather be exploring in some woods behind the house I used to live in that we had to give up because everything is unfair and I don't get to have a say, than to be fucking like this. Why don't you go exploit your senseless bullshit somewhere else? huh? Why don't you ever hit me like you mean it? Make me bleed, make me fucking care because it is obvious as fuck that you do not. Tell me you love me. I haven't actually heard it. I haven't actually been awake this entire time. Actually, I've been in a slumber, or hibernation of sorts. I've been bruising my knuckles on nothing but paper and cloth. Nobody ever actually wants my attention. Nobody ever realizes that I'm probably the only one who will do anything nice just because I can. Another night alone. Hungry. Sad. Angry. Nobody seems to notice when I don't eat. Or when I start bleeding. Or when I start slipping into depression merely because its cold outside and that just really makes me fucking sad, okay? I can't even have a tale of addiction. Its become so pathetic. Honestly, the lines have blurred between hating everyone, and just self loathing. I literally don't even know how to feel anymore. I sleep for hours just never having to get up. Really...get up. Wake up. Wake the fuck up. Sometimes, every thing is okay. Sometimes, the sun hits my skin just right and it makes me feel human. Sometimes, I wake up and I see myself in a room where I used to live. Where I had friends and a father. Where the worst thing was just a boy who I would be repulsed by when I got older. I'd still eat over the counter drugs and have monologues with the silhouettes of people who I thought would remain in my life but never did. They'd open their mouths and music would pour out of them as if it were its own language. It was. It is. I have become a moth to a light bulb. But someone has turned off the light and I have no idea where I am, where I am going, or how I even got here. I just wanted it, so I went for it. Its like that one time when I realized that nobody else loves the things I love the way I love them, so I went alone. Then I realized nobody ever loves me the way I love them, so I stayed outside alone for hours until money was dealt in order to be thought about. I'm shaking. I'm lying. I'm trying not to be desperate, but I am. Yet still, nothing can compare to the feeling of comfort. Security. The warmth of a pair of arms wrapped around you. Here's to wishful thinking. I am still the teenager who never found her place in the world. One day someone will love me. One day my body will stop betraying me. One day my sexual frustrations will fleet me like my own self pity and misery. Maybe, I'll be a butterfly instead. People like butterflies.

Just another shadow.

I remember a time where the railroad tracks would lie dormant and I would trace them with my fingertips. As a train steamed by I watched in awe as something passed so quickly and so dangerously before my eyes until the railroad tracks screamed in pain, calling out for me to ease their suffering. All I could do was listen. Some people want to suffer with the rails until their bleak and obligatory ending becomes written like the final chapter to a saga of books. I remember a time when the love I had for another person nearly killed me and I have never been able to love since. I felt my stomach twist so tightly it burst into a thousand little pieces, only to regenerate and do it all over again. I looked you dead in the eye with every single fiber of my being wanting every single fiber of yours as you looked at me with nothing but coldness. I don't even know who you are now. People think, and really honestly think that they know what will make them happy. They believe amongst all else, there is the one thing just barely out of their grasp that if they...could...just...reeeeach for it.... It will not make you happy. She won't make you happy, and he won't make you happy. You try to map out your body, all its crevices, corners, secret spots. You cleverly hide obvious secrets in your map so that when they are found, it seems accidental. Every single story that makes you who you are you let burrow in between your veins and tendons with the slightest bit of hope that someone will come along and dig for them. You do this is the search of something pure. Something honest, something real. But it is all just a lie everyone tells you with a smirk and a "cheers" gesture with their poison cupped firmly in their right hand. Why is it so hard to find an individual soul like mine, trying to read the maps we make of ourselves? We count pounds down. We count tears fallen. We count freckles and goosebumps and spend the money we work for to make everything smell nice and look pretty, and for what? To be ignored. She essentially pushes you to the ground without ever even having to utter one word. We are weak. We allow ourselves to be weak. We only trust ourselves and when our bodies give up on us? we have nothing. I know you are aware. I know you are awake, alert, and you are too far gone. I'm waiting for someone to toss me a line to bring me back on board, because I too, feel that I am far too gone. I jump into portal after portal after portal. To another dimension, another reality. There you are, heart in hand. In one piece. You are my subject. I wring you like a rag and use every single drop of you as a metaphor for my own bleak harsh and monotonous reality. All I thrive on is a little green light. It sits there taunting me. Is he there? Is he listening? Does he want to figure me out? It iss all a fucking game. Its my own fucking game. I, myself, am made up of little tiny bits of imagination and ingenuity. Gears and cogs grind in my brain and I can only think about slaying demons in the freudal age looking for tiny pieces of crystal that bring out inner demons, or inner purity. It's like I keep trying to push an unmovable object with the slightest bit of hope that if I just keep fucking trying, it will eventually budge. And that one little budge that might happen is enough for me to keep pushing until my arms turn into gelatin and my body is covered in sweat. I want to sweat for you. Time continues beating like the heart inside all of us. The more tortured you are, the faster your time moves. We all want the same things. We all try to escape from the society that we built for ourselves. We are beautiful fucking creatures. Our bodies are magnificent machinery that when we keep well maintained, can do anything. I am floating, and am stuck, between two different spectrums of behavior. I want to feel a certain way, but I don't. I sleep for hours, hours, hours. In my dreams everything is perfect. You are not there. The lives we live are fueled by anger, emptiness and sorrow. So much so that we become dried up like raisins with no real direction. The way she moves tantalizes you. You are unaware of how or why, but it does. All alone you search for an answer to questions you don't even really understand but are still asking. I gave up the pretense that if I keep perusing an exhausted cause, eventually everything will fix itself. It does not. It becomes much, much worse. My friends would rather take the chance of betraying me then apologizing than just asking permission, which I would have granted. Your sick sad sorry excuse for a person doesn't belittle the fact that what I felt was real, it was painful, and I haven't been the same since. But, go ahead. You'll just end up feeling the same way. I lay my head down on my pillow my body onto my mattress. I think about what you are doing in your home. How you deal with your stress. I wonder how I can pull this together in the way that I want but after awhile, I realize I cannot. A part of me wants to feel sorry for myself, but that time has since passed. I cut my heart open for you and I watch it bleed out but you do nothing. I won't regret a thing. I swam through the halls in search of love, but it was never reciprocated. I am the ghost within your walls holding all your secrets preventing the sunlight from reaching your face. You are trapped inside the idea of what you think you want. Phrases and words make their way around my head as if swimming in a pool of lost emotions and thoughts. We're all fucking trapped in our own ideas of happiness. How are we to escape? We may never figure it out. Stop focusing on the Heavens your branches are reaching for, you will always be rooted in the dirt. Never forget where you come from. The scars and stories that make up your existence. All we are and ever will be is a string of experiences. My ideals bounce within the measures and notes of the sweet melodies that appease my inner soul. I feel warm all over from the sounds that understand me so much better than people do. The manifestation of the sheet music rings through my skull and I smile. This is it. This is all we will ever have. Time to face it with dignity and eloquence. I give you everything. Take it or not, it's all I have.