Sail.

Blame it. You can blame it on anything you want, really. Sometimes I think things will be different for me. That my emotions and feelings will grow, develop, mature. But then I remember why I'm here in the first place and I remember why I do the things the way I do them. Call me all the names in the world, fine. But you don't understand why living this way is so much easier for me. People in my life take a shit on me, and I just let them, because if that's what makes them happy, screw whatever I feel. Every time I find something hopeful, fresh, new, fun. Something that makes me happy, I get excited. I should know better by now. If it sounds to good to be true, it is. So, its time to run away again with my tail between my legs hoping I can go back to feeling numb. The thing is, I frame myself on always being there for other people. Always. Every now and again there is a diamond in the rough that proves their shine. But why are kind, honest, loving people are rare? Shouldn't everyone else be rare? That's what they taught us growing up. Its so easy to believe the truth when the truth is ugly. People just live their whole lives without ever being appreciated. Maybe I'm one of them. I never asked for that, you know. It's bad enough I can't afford a full tummy, but when I go out of my way for someone...and they never even say thank you...the fact that it didn't bother me before is more bothersome than the fact itself. Thing with me is I always find myself claiming something that was never mine to begin with. It never surprises me anymore. It never surprises me when someone doesn't even try. No one ever has. They don't try, they don't fight, and I'm just used to it. I mean it when I say, "Life sucks, then you die." It's okay though, because even if you take the time to read this and understand how I feel, at the end of the day, I'm the one there for myself. I calm myself down. I listen to me talk. I hold myself while I cry because no one else does. Remember? I do this shit on my own. Because the very minute I let someone do it for me, they leave. Who needs em? My heart races as I try to pinpoint accurate and aesthetic lines to make myself sound better than I actually am. Today, the storm accompanied me on my way home. The lightening opened every pore of my skin and the thunder raised every hair. The music from my speakers understood me more than I understand myself and for a moment...everything was alright. Its funny to me how warped everyone has it. How everyone thinks everything can just fit in this little tiny box along with your favorite trinkets. Somethings never will change even though you knew for a fact they would. Where would I be if the world was ugly? I'd be dead. I would give up. I would ignore my thoughts of reason when I feel this way. But it is, so...here I am. Hey, at least I'm trying. Apparently a lot more than most people around me are. One day I will take my brain out and ring it out like a wet rag for the entire world to see. At least...maybe then, you'll notice me a little more. Maybe then, I'll actually be worth something.

Ace of Spades.

You start off with good intentions. A spark is lit, then the flame slowly turns into fire, slowly turns into an explosion. It's very funny how your whole body, mind, and thoughts can be completely inflamed...and yet no one will take heed until you're screaming in their face and they belch up a simple "why?" ...if I knew why...the problem would have a solution, yes? No one wants to be scum...it just somehow becomes easy after awhile. We are born onto a world that is essentially one giant head fuck. There are beauties and brilliances hidden amongst ever single square foot of this world. Most of it...we never get to see. And while reasons to be alive are out there...we're stuck being forced to rely on currency and propaganda for everything. Why isn't exploring a job anymore? The world then basically says...."there's what you want...here's what you get." And you get to decide to settle or be without anything at all. My brain keeps blood pumping, but it still craves answers to our existence as a whole person. What is all of this? And how can everyone else live so content with the fact that nothing is explained? Why was I born with the strange curiosities and chemicals in my brain? The drugs make everything calm. It feels okay. Until they're gone, then its worse. I was born upside down. The drugs aide in the sadness until they become the sadness. Then they go away...but so do you. Its not supposed to be this easy. To give up. That's why he died...so I would know not to give up. But why is it so easy? We shall overcome. With respect? What is all of this? I sleep. And I don't wake up. Everything makes more sense in dream land. How long can words be on paper until they enter someone's head? Until they become forgotten? Just like everything else. What happens when you want someone to read them and then you wish they were never written? Can you remember the same things I do? The dog, the dress, the tree? The little black book that held lines that you thought were inadequate until you grew up and read them from a different perspective. You blatantly chose to be unhappy because you're stubborn and your mind is made up that there is something far better than this out there. The irony is what is aesthetic. I know you know. And you're aware of that, too. yet we talk in circles to avoid it, because that is just what we always do. That's how we dealt the cards since day one. What makes people happy? A job? Money? Family? Love? ...or simply...knowledge or wisdom? How far out of this realm can you go before you end up never coming back? I don't want anything from you. I secretly do, but as far as everyone is concerned, I do not. And in reality and actuality, that is exactly how it should be. How far can we push our brains? ...our lungs? Our Hearts. The body can rebuild itself. physically. But how long until the visions, nightmares, and fears go away? They say fear is a choice. Unhappiness is a choice. I say they're very wrong. Who are you to tell me who I am or how to express myself? There comes a point in time where everything becomes strained. And at that point, you just have to stop. Hope it goes away. And if it doesn't? Shuffle the deck again.

Empty bed. Empty heart.

I feel it coming. Not sure why it's there, but it has always been there. How long can I ignore it? Before it becomes me? You're trying to solve the problem, but you have yet to realize that you're one of the causes. I keep reminding myself that everything will be so much better tomorrow. However, my heart keeps getting heavier and heavier. And I'm exhausted but the weight of it all is making me feel wide awake. Somewhere on this universe...the bottom of the ocean or strung along in a nebula, is opportunity. But for what, exactly? What if the bottom of the ocean is just where everyone's tears fall to? There's a strange comfort in sorrow. Every word carefully transferred from mind to fingers makes me crave to tell you things I've never told anyone before. Things of childhood. Things that I never really thought of before until I wondered why I am where I am right now. Do you ever wonder if you're given second chances? What would you do with them anyway? Who would you be now after you re-did your life? It's funny to me how a person never really goes away when they die. The memories of them fade and the details become unclear, but you never forget their presence, their essence. While that stands true, someone alive could be in the house next door and you'd probably never know it. Once upon a time, there was a beautiful happy little girl. Then she grew up. I guess everyone has to face the same patches of loneliness. There comes a time when doing things the way you're doing them gets old, you get sick of it. But...you don't know what to do because that's the way you've done them for so long. Makes you feel vulnerable. Makes you feel weak. Truth is, the tragedies are aesthetic. So no one judges them. Suicides are down to two categories: Pretty and painful, or ugly and easy. You can only pick one. You ever want to just hop in your car and keep driving as long as you can just to see where you would end up? Or maybe you get out of bed one day and say "today I will start smoking cigarettes." Hiding from the world under the blankets seems to solve everything, and now is a bad a time as any. Or as good as any. The harder you try to be happy, the harder it is to understand the corners and details of the world. Hiding under the blankets from the world is like being a bug in a glass jar, but the child forgot to poke holes in the lid. Its like my brain is stuttering and my thoughts aren't fluid anymore. Everything is broken. And there's only one thing I want. I want you. I want you to hold me and not say anything or do anything, or even feel anything...just be there with your arms around me, and that scares me. Because I've never wanted it before. And there, I said it. Its there, it's done. I want the same thing I've wanted from you all along and truth be told, I like it the way it is now. Because its safe. My heart lightens for a moment, and I breathe slowly to give myself something to fall asleep to. My head pounds because I'm suddenly surrounded by everyone's bad habits enticing me to have them too. Replace one bad habit with another. The seasons are changing. And so am I. Or maybe, rather evolving. And it's confusing me. How do I handle it? A vast wide of emotions, regrets, wants needs...and then there's you. As always. Someone has to give oxygen to my brain.

A thousand clever lines unread on clever napkins.

I just want to watch it over and over. Where have I gone? What am I even doing. Paint on my nails, heat in my mind, ice in my tummy and my heart is swollen. Its like I'm so close. So close I can touch it. I really want to tell you. Just blurt it out. But I won't, because then it will be over. I want the chase, but I want it on both ends. Maybe I'll wake up one day and realized you followed me. You chased after me. Didn't let me get away. But that's the thing. You'll always let me get away. I'm not good enough to go the extra mile for. I referred to myself as the girl who got away one time. I was never the girl who got away. I have and always will be the girl who ran away. There's so many goals I have for myself, but yet here I am again, throwing yet another day in the fucking garbage. Sometimes, all it takes is one day. If I can go a whole day without thinking I'm crazy, chances are it's a good day. Sometimes I just want to close my eyes really tight and open them and just be in a new place. It should be that easy. Yet time and time again, I see myself changing plans and sitting exactly where I've been sitting this entire time: no where,and for the most part? Unhappy. I'm tired of having so much passion, not knowing what to do with it, and putting it where it doesn't belong. Where it isn't wanted. Let's be frank here. You and I are still playing games.That's all it has ever been to me, and I'm bored. My back really fucking hurts, my heart is really fucking sad, and no matter how hard I try, I'm still just not as pretty as I want to be. What is it about this time of the day that intrigues me so much? Sometimes I feel like I have changed a lot. Other times I feel like I am exactly the same. The same fucking merry go round, looking for the same fucking horse. And I want to hide under my bed. I want to cry as someone holds my hand across from me. And I want to drink and get lost in whatever foreign substance I come across, because I know when I wake up, someone will be there to pull me up and take care of my inability to cope with being a simple human being. I do this shit on my own, you know? Every come down or freak out or panic attack or anxiety attack, I do on my own. They call it crashing for a reason. Time and time I crash and burn and I do it alone. I lose my breath and hyperventilate and avoid eye contact so you can't see mine swelling, I hide. I don't know what I'm hiding from...maybe my conscience. Maybe from nostalgia. Nothing hurts my heart worse than nostalgia. Why is it I spend all my time and efforts helping other people I love...holding them when they cry, freeing them when their stuck, and they can't even call to keep in touch, or take me up on my offers to see what my life is about? At what point did it turn around? How many times can I watch it over and over until I get the fuck over it and move on? Remember when you were little and they told you the world was constantly spinning and you stood really still and you felt as if you could feel it spinning on its orbit? I lied on father's grave and I looked up at the stars, since I won't get to see them as clearly anymore and I swear for one instant, I felt the earth spinning, and for a moment I had that magic feeling you get in your stomach when you're a child that makes you live day to day with almost no worries. Crows feet. Brain damage. Paranoia. Growing out. The point, is that there is no point. Everyone lives numbly and mindlessly until one day they remember that magic feeling in their gut. Then they wake up, the weather is nice, the sun is shining...then they blink. And everything goes back to normal and monotonous routine schedule. It's okay. Take a deep breath... be very very still. And maybe...just maybe.. you can feel the earth turning below your feet. No one seems to listen....even when I scream.

Dripping in Gold.

I would say that I'm not myself right now, but in order to that I would have to know myself. Everyone has limits...until you push them. I am raw. I have all these ideas in my head and that's most likely where they live and die. Why is it the saddest days are always the coldest? I don't want the things I'm used to wanting. After I cry hysterically, puke, turn pale, start shaking, I realize something. I don't want to end up like you. I do not want to stay here one more minute. So I get up and leave. I am not used to having feelings anymore. And I hate it. I want to love, to feel something. Attracted to tragedy, tragic tragic girl. The clock has sped so fast before me until I figure out something I want to do and then it couldn't go slower. Too late, did it anyway. There isn't a whole lot inside me right now. My bad habits, which I for some reason feel the need to make yours. The rubber band around my wrist has gone missing... I expected to pour onto this blank screen, but that's the problem with the things I do, it kills the good thoughts I have. At least then I know they're all mine. Not like you. That's the funny thing. I finally feel something I haven't felt in oh so long and I can't even grasp it, not even for just a second. My better thoughts in life include me being some one else for just a night. Out of no where I decided to tell you about my urge for you to know me. Really? I want you to sit in my car. I will drive to my dad's grave, my old home, my favorite playground, the road that spooked us all, and why? Because maybe, just maybe it might make you love me. My heart is pounding, my mouth is a wreck, and I want to feel sorry for myself because of the choices I have made. How many of you even remember me? Think of past memories? What's funny is they called you crazy. They gave you meds, made you normal. Why? That was what made you who you are...were. I am torn between sleeping for so long my dreams turn into reality and staying awake so long my reality becomes my dreams. I want to show this all to you, but you have to want to see it. Everything always sounds much better in theory. My body aches so much, but not nearly as much as my heart, and what for? I used to be full of so much ambition. Now I'm only full of lust, drugs, and anger. Look, I get that you're a loner, but I see something special in you. I was just hoping, that maybe, you saw something special in me too. I want a message from you so bad I literally hear the sound. I am not in love with you. I am in love with the idea of you. I am voluntarily driving myself mad. I miss so many things, that really, aren't worth missing. My car, my dog, a kitchen table, family dinners... family. I believe this is the worst thing about tragedy. The years after. Like its been too long for you to still be mourning. It still hurts, but its almost a numb kind of pain. At least when it happens, you feel it. A punch in your stomach... My eyelids are heavy, but my mind is wired. This a joke. A joke without a punchline, but for some reason, everyone is laughing. And I'm going to figure out why.

Hide and seek.

Its funny. Its fucking hilarious, actually. Really. I want you to look at me just for once with the same intentions I look with at you. I'm just a jerk playing with matches. Why do the melodies coming from my speakers understand me so much better than you could ever try to? Why do all the tiny little hairs on my raised skin feel so much better than you make me feel? And why must I push and pull and kick and scream to get a response? Only in my head though. The more frustrated I get, the more saddened I become. Will you feel anything at all? I keep telling my veins to pump more blood to the tips of my fingertips but the longer I push, the more dried up I become. I remember one night. I remember that song was playing while I just cried. I sobbed. Doesn't it just piss you off? How much passion I used to have for you? How much love my heart used to contain? "Used to." You didn't even know what the song was even about. you never knew how much you took from me when you left. And I never got it back. I cried. And you held me. But you never stopped it. Some people are just all talk. Some people only care for their own satisfaction. And I pity those people. Those people will continue to do so until they realize one day that they're choking on their own misery. Secrets lies and excuses. No one wants to really stay. Whether its me, or you. I wish you would take one moment to dissect my brain. I wish you would read this. Honestly, I'm wrapped around one to many fingers. I wonder what it was like to be sixteen. To be eighteen. To literally collapse on the floor in desperation. Because my daddy is dead and the only person i had ever loved doesn't want to acknowledge me. To literally collapse mentally because the drugs I pumped into my system were no match for the ones in yours. Maybe thats why i am the way i am. I dont have any more tragedy. Its like I'm pulling and ripping the arteries within the chambers of my heart to feel something again. Something other than disappointment. Hell, pain even. Anything. I'm looking at all the friends passed. What happened? Why does everyone grow up hating every one else? How far does friendship even go? Its like they spit in your face and you just smile and say "stop." and they just keep going. Its like when someone tells you a story and you imagine it in a room you've been in before...She tells you of the rape. The death, the treachery, the lack of friends and family. And you've been in the same speck of time with her, just in different rooms, in different space. And everyone is so smug and think they're doing the right thing, but sometimes they're not. And they can't even fork up an excuse to bark at you. To yell at you. They just metaphorically scream at you but you ask and beg to know why. There is no reasonable answer. They just become a glitch in time to you as you are to them. A fucking glitch. Nothing to lose? Nothing to gain. Because. My skin is bumpy and my heart is thumping. No time for it? No time for me. I try. I really do. I give a big heart to this world and no matter how many times its fucking shattered by your words or actions or lack of actions, I always fucking try. You never wanted me where I was in the first place. Thats how we know each other. I don't understand how you live with yourself, or how you even think your honesty makes of for your inability to be kind. At least the world gets beautiful melodies out of it. And you can look at the world with such happiness, amazement, curiosity, and love and no matter what...no matter what. Its still going to make you cry.

So, I'm sitting here, looking at this picture, and I decide....I am going to fucking write about it. Funny thing is, words hurt more than anything else. I want my words to feel like tiny little daggers stabbing little holes into your lungs so you know exactly what it feels like to look at this picture. Maybe I am calloused, or scared, or just don't really give enough of a fuck. But it's not about me in this moment. Its about her. And what she's about to go through. Welcome to being eighteen, my love. Wait until he chooses a manifestation of happiness over the real thing. Then you're going to be the one with a thousand tiny holes in all your organs. Its almost disgusting how easily I fall right back into it. And, the worst part is...I'm aware of it. How is it that a person could put so much effort and time into an appearance and every one in the building will notice and say something when the one person they did it for sneaks out the door? When in actuality, all said person wanted was an honest friend? How fucked up do you have to be as a person to struggle to be a decent friend? You're a self-absorbed ass and you fucking know it. You never cared about me, or my fucking make up, or my silly ideas, or my fucking story. Your own life is a joke to you. How do people live that way? And then there it is again.... my fucking story. You never asked about it. Would you even want to know? Would you like to witness what I have seen? My life is deeper than yours. I just have to remember that. You're the same fucking boy that ruined my spirit when I was a senior in high school. Now you're going to ruin hers. And that's partially my fault. How can you look someone in the eyes and tell them you love them and that they're special when you're being unfaithful... whats it like to be the other girl? Is it better? Worse? When someone cries is it any different when someone else cries? We're all so alone. Even when we're not. No one lives in our head with us...thinks the things we do... knows what horrors our past hides. Its a double stringed, blue, purple, white and green bracelet. That's what my scar looks like. Its a purple ugly eagle sketched onto my ankle, that's what my scar looks like. Its a pack of medicine found in the drug store. That's what my scar looks like. Its a whole fucking room where no one goes with a goodbye letter hidden within its depths. THAT IS WHAT MY SCAR LOOKS LIKE. But... you wouldn't know. You're too busy making them to learn about them. I fill up the little holes poked into my lungs, like usual. How do you get so calloused? You go through something bad enough to make everything else seem petty. You pick the other girl. I imagine 180 pounds of dead meat on the ground. You act like I'm not beautiful enough for you, I imagine the last look my father gave me. You ignore my message yet again, I remember having to wipe drool off my boyfriend's chin. Sometimes I forget. But...I always end up remembering. Time runs out so quickly. I don't even have time to catch my breath. Sometimes, I run. I remember that feeling of running up hill, breathing in all the cold in shoes that didn't fit as if maybe...just maybe if I ran a little faster he'd still be alive. Maybe... if I hadn't decided to eat ice cream, I could have stopped it. Or at least postponed it until I wasn't there. My skin is crawling and my tear ducts are swelling and what.is.this. Stop. Breathe. Hide it. For someone who deserves to hear it all. And that...that isn't you.