it's like coming home.

Sometimes it's easier to make yourself believe that nothing is wrong. Sometimes, it strikes you pretty hard how something you expected still stings anyway. Like a big slap in the face that you anticipate, but...it still hurts your cheek and your ego. That gut wrenching feeling in the pit of your heart the second you realize this is pretty much what you've wanted this entire time; countered with the pinch immediately after when you realize....they will not love you. They never do. You'd think it'd be numb by now. That's the thing about potential, it leaves so much room for disappointment even when you've tried to train yourself not to go down that path. Sometimes, it just happens. I'm swimming in a sea of disappointment and now it just feels like I'm drowning with no one to reach in and grab me out of the water. That's the really difficult part about being a listener. No one wants to listen to how you feel or your story. I might not enjoy conveying how I feel but I still have feelings and particular parts of me that are hollow that I'm trying to fill. In the end, instead of filling the emptiness, I end up just ignoring it until another person comes along and makes me think it can be filled but then reminds me why it's hollow in the first place. It makes me feel so so old when I know that I am so so young and the confliction causes anxiety and makes my system turn into a nervous wreck. The camera I hold gives me wings and the ability to fly. A long lost friend said that once. Her hatred of the birds around her, mocking her in her inability to soar the skies inspired me to become a little more wholesome. That same hatred turned into a larger one, practically consuming her entire essence. Thing is, I'm always second best, there will always be someone prettier or someone there first. And it's fine, it's okay; because deep down I know that I am unable to feel anyway. I want to wash the smell of failure and rejection off in a hot bath but I'm afraid the stench remains long after. The trestle below the bridge alongside the train tracks held our scribbles of laughter and secrets. Our stories echoed and ricocheted between the graffitied walls. The films and songs and tales that grew to mold you into the person you are today replay over and over until you are completely overwhelmed with nostalgic sorrow. Those same stories now ricocheting and echoing inside your head with no one to listen to them. Ignore the feelings that remind you of the past. Look forward even in the present. Who you are and what you do is not defined by the people you think you care about. Give it enough time and you'll forget all the nuances you took so much effort and so much time to memorize like the marks on their skin or the melody in their voice. The way their eyes look in the sun. Your feelings for others do not run your life. You do. ...I don't like to talk when I inhale my poison. Something about pouring chemicals into your body to lose yourself, even if just for a mere moment make communication seem below you. Remember back to a time when poison was all you knew? You've become so much better than that and yet...somehow you envy the former pretense you used to hide behind. Strange how sad happy memories can make you. You give up too easy. The tingle in the bottom of your feet you got one time to run as fast as you could until you literally could not go anywhere. As if running would make him come back to life. Replace one bad habit with a new one. Replace too much sleep with not enough. Put on something special, something specific only to be punched with news you expected to hear. Nothing is surprising anymore. And that's alright. I'm no longer blindsided. I cannot even cry when I feel like I should. At my expense, I'll do whatever is asked to make others happy. Chalk it up to another tally. Notch on my bed post type of thing. When my belly goes empty, or the flesh of my lips start to tear, or I cannot get that disgusting smoke smell out of my hair, no worries. You're all just so fucking happy and so am I. I just hope one day soon someone snaps me out of this lonely void that lies within me and within my heart so I can blossom just like everyone else. That's all I want to do, really. Blossom. Like the flower that I know I am. The flower that I deserve to be. What if each strand of hair on my head stood for every disappointment in my life? Our faults lie within our own hearts, our habits, our choices. The tears that once hit your driveway no longer burden themselves within my eyes. The love I used to have so easily is trying so hard to burst out onto the ends of the little hairs raised on my skin but I refuse to let it go. That is all mine. Taking steps is easy. Standing still is hard. I recall a time where I yearned for someone to care about me and they never did. I learned my lesson. Learning lessons takes the spark out of life. Guess I've become dull. I live my life by a lesson-to-lesson basis. One things for sure, my feelings will come out one way or another. One day I'll be fully alive and well. One day I will become the story everybody wants to hear.