on breaking up;

I think there once was a quote saying that you are not destined to one soul mate, but that many different soul mates enter and leave your life in many different shapes and forms. Every year, we challenge ourselves, whether we realize it or not. Every year we emerge a different person, whether people like it or not. I'm done. I am tired of offering a piece of my soul to those who do not try hard to keep it safe and warm. I will no longer apologize for my feelings. Everyone wants to be happy but you cannot be happy unless you are also sad, angry, exploding with colors that others may not like. I do not care what others like. If everyone was happy all the time, where would we find art? Expression is healthy. And when I express to you what I feel and you spit it in my face after I carefully paint my love onto you like an artist paints a china-doll, I am done. That's all I can take; that's all I can do. And it kinda fucking hurts. Not like a punch to the stomach that knocks the breath out of you; that feeling has passed. It is more like the needle tearing into your skin when you deliberately sit for a colorful tattoo. That tattoo is a beautiful embodiment of all the negative emotions for which people push you away. I'm tired of explaining myself, I'm tired of having to justify my feelings, and I'm tired of saying sorry for them. As one person passes through, another will enter. As the full moon graces me with her dance, the sun will provide me with warmth and vitamin D. Sometimes, there aren't enough highs in the world. There aren't enough climaxes. Not enough reliable people. As it goes to this date, I stand repeating myself like a drummer boy with no audience. You want to be loved but yet you push away the ones that love you. As I spent a weekend stretching out an exhausted and pitiful hand to people I did not know, I realized something. Anyone can be a soulmate, temporarily. Connecting with smiles and sharing in similar experiences is so beautiful I cannot describe it. How ironic that we can connect with people we do not know more so than our loved ones. How silly it is that whole relationships are forever changed based on an experience. It is those who do not take you for granted that lift you up. Whether you are being lift up or torn down, you emerge differently. Sometimes weaker, sometimes stronger, but regardless of your strength, you are evolving. Do you know who do not evolve? Happy people. Selfish people. People who hurt you then shame you for being upset over it. I will not be ashamed. Take it or leave it. I bend over backwards, forwards, left and right for the people I love and if they do not do the same, I will stop. I am no longer angry. I am trying to no longer be hurt, but one thing is very true. I am done.

Sometimes.

It's like forgetting the words to your favorite song. When push comes to shove there are certain barriers hidden within you that just cannot seem to break. All the while, the indestructible walls you build for deliberate reasons crumble down every time they have the opportunity. No matter how hard you may try, it is impossible to know every curve, every wrinkle, and every facet of another. You may try to memorize their rhythm, but do you know what caused the rhythm to begin with? Its strange how lovers can slowly become strangers simply because they just want to. Everyone heals differently, in their own time, in their own way. I would rather indulge myself in the variations of feeling, rather than try to numb it. Numb is worse, I believe. And in the grand scheme of things, what does numb accomplish anyway? To be numb is to be dead and while others may think that's a good path to take, for some, feeling everything all at one time can be so much more rewarding. Love? Hate? Pain? That's all okay. Indulge in all of it, take it as it is. Because, this means you are alive and honestly, nothing is greater than being alive. Every line of a book, or lyric of a song is interpreted a thousand different ways and imagined by a thousand different sets of closed eyes. When you inhale a big breath, you are inhaling all that the world has to offer you, and you shouldn't ignore it. The vibrations the Earth gives out every day effect every one separately. Some days aren't yours at all. And when it is time for those people that touch your heart in ways you will never forget to leave, you can choose whether to feel their hand print or their absence. While your body maybe secreting and oozing sorrow from the pores in your skin, take note in how you feel in this moment. Embrace it, relish it, savor it. Because when you stop feeling anything at all, you'll miss it. Because all the drugs and orgasms, cigarettes and punches to the wall, cannot and will not replace the spot in your soul that is left barren. Shaved. Blank. Erased. Bare. But these spots, these hand prints, these absences? They are forever important. They help create the barriers and the walls; sometimes, they help knock them down, too.

Sugar, sugar.

Engulfed within the sheets, your fingertips like paint brushes to my skin like canvas. I prefer to leave the scent of my hair upon your exact pillow so that the next night, right before you drift away, you smell me and smile. That is what I am. A memory, a painting, a scent upon your pillow. Slowly, but surely, I become your favorite dream. I think back to a time where the void wasn't so large. That's my favorite dream. Not you, or your scent. But rather, a time where you lingered. A time when I was the paintbrush, not the canvas. There's an animal in me. I unleashed it one time on a serene campground, curly wild hair, underwear, night time. I floated between spaces and universes and galaxies looking for you so that I could avoid you the whole time. Its funny how you barely cross my mind, but when you do, I have enough disdain boiling in my stomach to melt metal. You are the epitome of the reason I hide the beast within my soul, buried deep underneath my corporate giggle and lack of tear ducts. You are the reason I care less than ever before. Once there was a trestle nearby that heard my pleas. Whatever those pleas were, I can say not. Once there was a boy who sang about me. Literally transformed my body and my sex into words and melody. How magical. All the onces from before all turn to melody into the air into nothingness. Sometimes I want it. Like, really really bad. To be loved and cared for and tossed to the side from time to time. A lot of the time; the idea frightens me. My mouth salivates, my body gets faint, I start to feel like I'm drifting away and someone brings me back to life. That lightheaded feeling I have not decided whether or not I care for comes sometimes in a wave-like fashion. My head throbs with a familiar sense of exhaustion even when I haven't done anything to cause it. A mental exhaustion of sorts having to deal with the walls and borders within my mind that I'm constantly trying to jump over. Amazing how simple some things can be. There are times when I find myself craving someone. I want it to be someone specific but that fluctuates to say the least. The fact of the matter is, I do not want to crave a person who does not crave me back. Its just not as fulfilling. Even though sometimes I like to tell myself that there's this secret hidden message and cryptic undertone or intention buried beneath whatever is actually there. I just feel as if I'm drifting through my life anticipating a moment where a stranger is going to come up to me, grin, slam me into a wall and kiss me with the utmost passion. I kind of have the smallest spark of hope that something will fall out of the sky into my lap. Dancing in a bedroom, sneaking in through windows, sneaking out through windows, forgetting who I was helped me to figure out who I am. Amazing to me how anger was the fuel to my ignorant happiness. That still holds true for a variety of people. Words hold weight for years. I still remember the things you said to me. How you were a child and I was a babysitter when all I did and ever wanted to do was love you. I just wanted to love. But as mentioned before, it could ooze and flood out the ocean, into the sky, and would still had not been enough for you. How much could you take from me? And where are you now? Nowhere. My own words are more powerful than anyone else's. Don't tempt me. I could cause ice to shatter with my words, earthquakes with a shake of my hips. There's something else. A different progression. The feeling of breath on my skin, fingertips rested on my hip bone, smolder in my brain as retaliation of the shit I was put through. I want to be the weight rested within your mind. The frail passerby feeling of being brushed to the side, is that worth anymore than being ignored as a whole? What is it exactly that you want me to be? I can be it. I can be your queen, placed ever so mighty upon the world, your pedestal, you groveling at my feet. I can be your Samaritan, helpful, charitable and filthy. I can be your empathetic, to breathe and feel only you. Or I can be me. I won't fit into a box, but I can be whatever it is I need to be as long as you don't assume that you know me. You can never know me. It's almost as if I am a gigantic puzzle with pieces scattered into everyone else's hands. That's all people really are- mazes. Sometimes you get lost in other people. They can consume you as subtly as your conscience, eating you from the inside out until you're nothing but a pair of eyeballs and a crooked smile. Inhaling your essence might spring me back to a time where I had nothing and no one but the thoughts in my head and the warmth in my palms. How many times will I bring up the same page over and over until I finally finish it? Digging and pulling and prying away at my insides and guts, I can finally show you, show someone, show anyone the gem beneath it all. I can make colors glide across the time span of my imagination but I cannot make myself bleed for a cause. This exhaustion has been slightly overwhelming but I must fight through it for no other reason than I just have to. I feel raw and ripping from the seams with no passion or aspirations but with guilt and apathy. The embrace of a shoulder blade to your eyesight should mean more to you than it does to me, but it never does. I want to feel it rising from the bottom of my feet, out through my fingertips, vibrating up to my ears. To run my tongue over my teeth in sexual anticipation, to feel your body warmth wrapped around mine. My stomach flip flops at the thought. I am merely a goddess putting you at your knees. That's what you want right?

is everybody in?

Sometimes we forget the calmness that is in absolute silence. Sometimes we forget what silence sounds like. After all, silence is the loudest noise there is. I can hear nothing but the sound of my breathing and the thoughts ricocheting in my mind like bullets in a metal room. There is a familiar weight on my chest and its over absolutely nothing. I feel forced to smile and not allow my feelings known because they make people uncomfortable. This whole "stay positive" way of thinking is dangerous. We are human. We bleed, we laugh, we cry, and sometimes we get really fucking pissed off. Deal with it. It's such a sad thing to know that being raw and in a natural state of being is such a taboo for the rest of the world. Not us. Not the outcasts, rejects, the broken, the beautiful. The loving. Not everyone can just jump up and run away from their problems. Trust us, we've tried and we've failed. You will do the same. You have to let people learn their own lessons and fall on their asses the way you fell on yours before they realize how selfish they actually are. As if they're the only ones to be in the spot they're in. I'm ready for everyone to stop tip toe-ing over the way other people feel. People only want to discuss anger or sadness if its their own. There are so many nuances about ourselves to which we hold value. We hope that one day people can actually see us-really see us- and the little things we appreciate about ourselves. One day, our eyes open from sleep and we realize how even though we've come so far, we're still in the same spot. I take it in stride. Sometimes, your hair grows, the texture of your face changes, and very little by little your morality morphs into something it wasn't when you were younger. I am not ready to love. I want to, but it isn't the time. The things that fascinate me haven't stopped fascinating me and I think that's a sign that I haven't reach my limit of self discovery. Is there even a limit to self discovery? The things that tie me down to this world are so different than the things that tie you. The things that tie us up. ...the thing that tie us together. Body pressed against body, Breath hot against each others' as our hearts beat faster and faster. Is innocence a thing to believe in? How simple things used to be with chalk and markers and angst all meshed up into a discombobulated pile of a person. How much can one person scream over the deep rooted holes in her hands until people fucking hear it? Who cares if they hear it. They can't fix it. Black holes can't be shut. Sometimes its hard to say what you want. The English language only has so many words. My stomach gets twisted like the wringing out of a rag but with nothing left in it to be wrung out. What is it that you expect from me? I can't be what you want me to be, I can and will only be who I want me to be and if you can't handle that then why are you even here? Don't put yourself in a situation you can't handle. Don't allow yourself to be numb when you want to feel and don't allow yourself to feel when you want to be numb. I remember walking under the moonlight with a boy smiling at me. That one smile that gave me hope. So simple. Having passion. For nothing other than myself. I remember being up further than I should have been then coming down and feeling so much that I couldn't contain myself. 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 feudal age looking for tiny pieces of crystal that bring out inner demons, or inner purity. You won't understand it. You won't understand me, or how I think, feel, or what I see in other people. I don't want a real life fairy tale. I want a fairy tale. I go back to where my veins once pumped with anger, love, compassion, sorrow, and depression. I can feel it in the wind, and I can feel it deep in my bones. It makes my heart skip a beat. Like it did when you used to yell at me. Like it did when that phone rang inside the theatre. Copy paste, copy paste. The pieces of me from before attached to the pieces of me now. I try to keep them together. It's all we really can do is keep ourselves together. One day this world is going to break. It's going to snap in half. Every single person in this world is connected through the hardships we all go through. We all hurt, we all love, we all hate. Every single one of us, whether we want to admit it or not. Its insane how much power we all hold. One click of a button, one half assed smile, one kiss. Maybe not even a kiss, but faces only an inch away, feeling energy and heat radiating off of one another. We're all typically looking for the same thing except no one quite knows what that is. How lovely is it that we are all connected through the feelings we feel, or sometimes, trying not to feel. Sometimes you bump into broken souls. Broken souls, with broken hearts, with broken spirits. All I want to do is wrap my arms around them, run my fingers through their hair, and let them know it will be okay. No one is different though. We're all some from of broken pieces stuck together with makeshift glue. One day, we will break apart and sew ourselves shut out of fear. How easy it is for others to feel when it is just as easy for the half to not feel. How silly. Sometimes I imagine myself romanticizing a time where the melody of a certain boys voice soothed me. Like the smell of a freshly baked pastry lured you into a kitchen, the sounds of his voice lured me into his living room at 3 AM. Bare footed, Indian style on the flannel couch, my head on your shoulder meant a lot more to me than I would ever admit at the time. Sometimes the familiar scent of pheromones and honey can remind you of more simpler things. Sometimes simpler things are better. Then again, sometimes they're not. Kind of like the silence that screams in our ears right before they start ringing.

Cold weather.

It still amazes me how powerful words can be, even in the simplest of ways. The way the consonants cut like smooth blades slicing your skin, sometimes daggers jabbing tiny holes all over your body and lungs. Writing is a weapon; your voice can shake people's bodies in painful, in thoughtful, and in sexual ways. When was the last time you watched a woman put lotion on? Watched her slowly glide her hands up her legs while grinning, smelling so sweetly you can't help but watch as if she's painting you a picture. Sex is subjective. You take things for granted. The small little things that frustrate you can bring beauty to other people. We are all so fragile, frayed, and yet we're pieced together like paper mache, with our insides hanging out in the open. Our tiny little stories make up so many atmospheres in our lives, giggling to ourselves over something we remember. It's amazing how each individual life is comprised of such vastly different illustrations that no one can see but us. What lines in books most people have never read, lyrics in a song that people haven’t heard, things that people have said to you that you've never forgotten that contributes to your make-up? Strange how we're all made up of words. If we all ate our consciences, we'd have full bellies. We give so much thought and so much meaning to letters that ultimately we've created as a human race. We give things meaning and sentiment. Pretty fucking beautiful. Sometimes I just want someone to come along and slap my face and look into my eyes and tell me that they know who I am and that it’s going to be okay. I know its okay, it will always be okay, but sometimes you just need to hear someone else say it. To connect with another person without having to make an effort, they can just...see you. All of you. Sometimes someone just needs to take your hand and lead you into a new world where you'll gawk in amazement as they sit back and grin, thinking, "Yep. That's right." All of my life leading up until now has been so much to take in. It's sad that we can't remember everything. Every single second is a second of who we are. Sometimes forgetting is necessary. Like those times when getting drunk become more than just for fun. Sometimes you need a reason to get out of bed, to stop your routine, to remember every thing that’s put you right the fuck here; this is where you are supposed to be. Sometimes you want to love so badly it fucking hurts then the next day you want to be left alone because you’re angry and you want to hate but sometimes you just can’t. Every eyelash on your face keeps sweat out of your eyes like its meant to and you don’t even realize it. Wake up, feel the cold air as it punches you in the stomach reminding you that you are still human in there. Remember a kiss of a boy you’ve never kissed before? It just feels so good. A shirt brushing your shoulder, an empty smile with hateful thoughts lurking behind them. You are who you are without anyone’s help and you’re doing just fine. Sometimes you just want to feel pain because that’s all you’ve ever done. It feels welcoming, has a purpose, it reminds you of how strong you really are. The winter. It's right around the corner and I know its coming. The flaky pale skin on my face will show every detail of just how tired I am for no reason at all. Why is it so beautiful to be broken?

Just scribbles on paper.

It's amazing how the brisk of a sleeve can make you feel. Honestly, it's not even about you. You are just an extension of some deep rooted gunk inside me. Ever wonder why we stay in the lines, inside the margins? Ever wonder why we have to practice tricking our hearts into being on the same page as our brains? Heartbreak can manifest itself in almost any shape or form-like an unbeatable boss of sorts. How can you fly with clipped wings? Do you still try? There's something within the grip of the steering wheel or the way the wind blows wisps of your hair onto your cheeks, brushing them with a slight tickle such as a feather, which can only bring nothing but a grin with no other reason. Do I scare you? Do I entice you? Do I remind you of who you are, what you are capable of feeling, what primal instincts you cannot shut out? Does my presence make you fear, not me, but yourself? I've allowed myself to feel a couple of times. I wanted to scream into the sky for no one to hear but the stars that mourn our downfalls. Loving someone hurts. To do everything around their liking to get them to realize the extent of what you feel. Meaningless expression. I remember slammed doors and empty, empty, shallow laughs. Sometimes, I laughed at nothing. Anything to feel any amount of joy-real or not. That's love for ya. A pack of cigarettes and a tank of gas held so much weight even when you didn't care enough to stop me. It was never enough, was it? I could have put it all into a grave if I wanted, it would overflow and it still just wasn't enough for you. Love is pain and pain is love and I get that. Really- I do. But I want to feel it. I want to feel it all over, running and pumping in my veins like an adrenaline rush that just really gets you off. The perfect climax. To hurt for a reason, to hurt for a cause. To fight for something people just don't believe in anymore. I do. But I don't just want to love. I want to hurt. Because screaming and slammed doors and sobbing and watching my lit cigarette burn holes into my pants just feels so much better than feeling nothing at all. I am human. That is the beauty of being human. To feel. When absolute blankness is all you are exposed to-pain just sound so damn good. You can't put love or pain on your grocery list. The universe is a fucking joke that way. I want to love and feel and hurt until it damn near kills me, to fall to my knees, beg for mercy and then beg for more. Because that's the way my body works. That's the way it’s supposed to fucking work. That's the way my mind works and that’s the way my fucking heart works too. Empathy is never the same to another person as it is to you. Hurting for someone who hurts doesn't make their pain any more tolerable. Why do we always fall in love with strangers? Passing by, stopping in your life with a simple kiss-a hug- a fuck- a conversation. Do we ever actually know people? No one knows the thoughts we think before we go to bed and when we wake up. What secrets we hide from ourselves and how are hearts become so heavy in the middle of the night and we can't sleep, but all we can do is think think think until there are no more thoughts in the world to think and the heaviness in our hearts shifts to our eyelids. What is the equivalent to the dull feeling that creeps its way into your body without you noticing until its in full swing? It’s a want. ... a need. But for what? I'm still the same lost girl I've always been. I've not made much progress. I don't know what to do- not sure how to feel. Every feeling I have comes with repercussions and WHY. Why is it so wrong to be human, for me to be a fucking human. Has humanity come to point where we've lost sight of what's important? That we just don't fucking get it? I want it to go away. The winter months- the cold- the sadness. The imprints of my teeth engraved into my upper lip. I want to feel joy at my fingertips to spread to others. The blindness I feel has become overwhelming. There is a hollowness perching itself inside us all and we fucking let it. How will we let it define us? How will you let it define you? That’s the true characterization of humanity. How far are you willing to push yourself. My body has a mild vibration to it as I lay physically drained, exhausted. Surrounded by cubicles, I want to jump up! Shout out for mercy! Shake up the world, tell everyone around me to wake the fuck up! This is it- this is the revolution. When mankind battles it biggest enemy. The enemy that has been around for the longest time. Itself. Mankind is mankind's greatest weakness. To hurt each other and tear each other apart limb from limb. And we don’t even see it. I take comfort in the small things. A film used to watch to help me forget that my father is dead and he will not be able to hold me again. My arms and hands wrapped tightly around my warm belly, the best feeling and touching there is. You will never ever get under my skin. You won't see what beauty there is within this heart because you will not allow it. That goes for all of you. I'd like to go back to a tree in the woods. To enjoy my innocence I didn't know I had until it was gone. I want to remember the flesh that is underneath the threads tied from the graves, the attic stairs, the church bathroom, the black box theatre, the inside of a Buick Century. That's who I am. You're just too naive to know it.

Nothing brings comfort like being alone.

Sometimes you have to jump in without knowing the temperature of the water. Because the truth is, it might be freezing and it might make you wrinkly, but your body will become used to it. Out of the three rainbows I have managed to see this week, the first one was the best. Its odd to me how similar we as people all feel and think. We always think nobody else will understand but in actuality, they might be thinking the same thing. I crave a pulse pressed against my skin. Do not ask me why, but I just need a connection similar to the shock you get from walking on carpet with socks and touching a doorknob. I want to feel an electric current raise the hairs on the back of my neck and I want to project it onto the rainbows that I keep seeing. It's much like this feeling when you finish a book you've been reading for sometime. Its so exciting, and new and once you finish the end...you're not really sure what to do with yourself. I want to center myself around and idea of a peaceful mind, however, whilst my eyes are close, my mind thinks thoughts quicker than can be put into words. How many people would take the time to get to know me. How much certain albums and T.V. series make up of me. I want to be the book you read. I want to make you not know what to do with yourself. I want to read you. Know every story behind every scar. Memorize every freckle only to forget and then remember later. People are just people. Why is there so much electricity between hand touches and deep breaths? So much reassuring in wind that makes your hair tickle your scalp. You are not what you think you are. And do we actually all become the opposite of what we thought? Sometimes I cry for music. I cry for stories. I cry for the breeze. Sad and lonely, the breeze never belongs with anybody yet makes such an impact on the way we feel. I'm tired of my body quitting on me. That is to say, I'm tired of the back pain and the headaches but more importantly, I'm tired of tricking myself into thinking I am content when I am actually not. We all kind of lie to ourselves. Everybody lies. Its kind of sad that the only person you can actually believe in and trust is yourself: the person who lies to you the most. You aren't happy. I mean externally we can be happy but really deep down there is something we're always wanting and needing. And as much as we try to ignore it, that instinct is there. Lurking and waiting for a moment to become obvious to you and just because you recognize its there? Doesn't change a damn thing. Our body runs on sleep, our minds run on expose, but our hearts? They run on lies and comforting ideas of curling up into a ball and squeezing your eyes so tightly that tears can't possibly fall out of them, can they? You want to let the whole world in but all you do is shut it out. Nothing can penetrate your blankets and books and tea. Somedays we want to run as fast as we can hoping to eventually fall off the Earth, but we are simply not allowed to fall off. Someone once told me they envied a dying man. How absurd. But was he wrong? Are any of us ever really wrong? Everything can be chalked up to a gray area. Simplistically complicated. Twist me up and wring me out and tell me what exactly you see pour out of me. Is it beautiful? is it ugly? Another gray area. We all have demons we battle, who's to say yours are any different than mine? Instead of hiding them, why don't we let them play with each other? Let them distract each other. Riding backseat watching drop upon drop upon drop splash onto the glass when I was younger never occurred to me that it would be a significant memory. And in some ways, its not- but I remember. How much of me can I put into a container to save for later- another day-to share with someone who actually gives a damn? I'm tired. I am really fucking tired. I am so tired of putting in effort for no one to put in any back. And even furthermore- I'm tired that it hardly bothers me. A shrug, an eye roll. I should scream. I should scream at the top of my fucking lungs instead of being a clump of apathy. Because this is exactly who the fuck I am. I am a knot. I am a saint with demons. I am every single thing I need to be and every single thing you need me to be to. If only someone weren't too blind to see it. Being blind is a funny thing. Sometimes you don't see what you want. Sometimes you can't see what you need. I built a wooden box to contain my heart. Put it away for a rainy day-a day with rainbows. Maybe I'll bury it. Deep deep deep. A time castle. Centuries later they'll find it, dissect it and see more from it than anyone else has ever tried to. How pathetic. I want to be someone's drug. To leave a taste on your lips that you will never be able to shake from your mind, from under your skin. Something you'd never expect yourself to feel. To be slapped with unrecognizable feelings. To be prevalent and existing and every single part of your skin would miss the feeling of mine. We never really knew what to expect from ourselves as we tuned into what we became. Heroes-villains-standbys. The action is actually all around us and what fate have we chosen? Do we chose fate? Maybe we've all just been dead this entire time and this is Hell and we never even fucking knew. Surprise, surprise. My hands become shaky, my body stabs and stabs in pain and discomfort. Who are you? Who am I? Why don't we try and find out? Let's just be real here. Fear overpowers all. Or rather- comfort overpowers fear. So why don't you overpower yourself?