lingering scents and blood in my mouth.

Brace yourselves for this one. The facets of a person are limitless and we know this but it still shocks me how easily we forget that. I am in love with nobody. I am in love, but it is with existence. Or non-existence. One of the two. Here's the thing: my imagination goes much farther than my actual life ever will. I perceive this as a false understanding better hindering myself into a bleak state of sadness, or nothingness, depending on the position of the moon and the weather that night. Always, after midnight. Sometimes you can even imagine the very scent of another human being. Dream of it. Dream of all the magic that is buried in your bone marrow and wake up with your smile fading because nothing you ever imagine happens. But, hey. It's all good. Nothing is quite ever what it seems albeit right or left. Right or wrong. Whichever. Every thread within your pillow case holds every single thing you've ever wanted to exist. And that, my friend, is exactly where they shall remain. Let's talk a walk. Find a tree. Climb it. And you and I will sit on a branch and become sponges to each others' spills. Then, we will trace each others scars, freckles, bumps, wrinkles, and delve into a realm of laughter. Your turn. Go ahead. You scared? That's okay. There are little tiny things in this world that people find fulfilling. The heat of your breath as you kiss your way down my tummy. The period printed at the end of my favorite sentence in my favorite book, concluding my favorite thought. You are everything in this world that you want yourself to be. A simple turn of the head, flick of the wrist, one tiny smirk. It all adds up to everything and absolutely nothing all at once. We give ourselves checkpoints. Vanity checkpoints, happiness checkpoints...sadness checkpoints. all for our own mindless self indulgence. You gasp for air, hoping that the oxygen stretching out your lung tissue will be some sort of reminder that hey- you're alive. and you're okay. It still won't negate the fact that you're twitching in artificial pain. But...we all know you like it. I lick my lips. I chew the inside of my mouth until it bleeds and I realize that I'm doing it. Its sort of like...a prism. Each side has its own secret story, but once a light shines through the gem, all the sides combine to form a rainbow. You don't really know how you got here, do you? To this exact point in your life? Take a step back. Remember every single word you wanted her to say, but never heard fall off her beautiful, beautiful, lips. Your body will always forgive you for the things that you do. Your heart, however, won't. I muster up some sort of paradoxical idea that not being myself is actually being more myself. And I'm not quite sure how I feel about it. Is anybody ever really sure how they feel about anything? Your eyelashes catch your sweat, and your fingertips curl into your mattress reminding you, that your body is kind of the only thing you trust. For the most part. I want to feel like a broken piece of glass in the ocean as it smooths me over. I want to be pressed up against the wall with someone's breath heavy in my ear. I want to be lost within the bass of a speaker and have my concerns be bumped away. The difference between me and you, is that I am open to interpretation. I taste your cigarettes on your mouth. The same mouth that lies and makes fake promises. I prick myself with the gift you gave me then demanded I give it back. Because it was special to you but I'm not anymore. I want a tear to fall on the tip of your tongue and you realize how bad sadness tastes. You say the same thing in circles but no one ever hears you say it. You hide notes and letters inside crevices of corners, but the only person reading them is a ghost who never lived. See things from a different perspective. See things with a new taste, a new smell, a new slimy, disgusting, sticky texture and then you tell me how exactly the fuck you feel. The doors have opened a path for you into a new way of seeing every single thing you see every single day. You crush molecules beneath your feet, thoughts and ideas within your head, and you think nothing about it. You're haunted. I'm haunted. We're all fucking haunted. I demand more. The thing about that is only I can make it happen. Every single hair upon my head will be pulled out upon request. I count ceiling tiles. I fit my foot in the boxes printed on the floor. I make sure each side of my mouth chews my food equally. Imagine a world with no melody. Imagine living in it. Imagine living in filthy quietness until one day you scream at the top of your lungs and that is the first sound you've ever heard. The one thing you love the most will be taken away from you after you realize how much you fucking love it. The one time I ever wanted to run as fast as I could, I was wearing shoes that were too big for me. Mottos and lyrics will get you through the day, sounds and images through the night. Always. I forgot what you smell like. Your voice, the bumps on your skin, the smirk on your face. My imagination makes up for it, but I know it isn't right. I let it all go within the words on my shampoo bottle. Let it go within the numbers as I count money. Let it go within the miles I put on my feet. Think stop explode. Sleep. This is it. I have run out of excuses to make.