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.

Winter gets so cold.

I want to cut myself in half and let all of my contents pour our onto the table for you to see. That's my story, and I'm sticking to it. As we're lying naked in bed face to face and you look at me, what do you see? I want to get high with you and never come down. I want acoustic melodies to play through the air as we float over the bed in infinite space. Melodies stuck in my head that make your intestines feel warm. The same intestines that are going to fall out on the table whenever someone decides they're ready to listen, really listen. Maybe I'm making up for when I was so numb, so oblivious that I couldn't speak. I couldn't think. I couldn't type. I couldn't breathe. It was melancholy and periodically joyful but what I came to realize is I'm not me unless I'm chasing something. And now, even when I'm focused on what's at stake, my mind still flutters to the dreams I cannot have. That's who I am. My jaw is clenched my face is smiling and you think I'm happy but as soon as that sun comes up, we both know its over. It doesn't have to be, but it is. The rivers in my mind dry up and I forget it. But there is still this well in the back of my brain that overflows with ideas of a superb utopia. That's the thing, though. You don't exist. At least not in my world, my time. Of all the people who have lived, died, been made up, thought of, created, in all the world...one of them is bound to capture the same disastrous orgasmic ideals. We're all so caught up in making our lives materialistic, spiritual, and social, we forget about the centuries before us. We're devolving and we're too dumb and low spirited to see it. We enjoy our fantasies played out on screens or written in books but we never strive to be in the movie or book. We're all broken creatures. Everyone of us. Broken enough to be humble. We all have bad habits. Mine is chasing things that don't want to be chased. Maybe I'll grow out of it. Maybe I'll bury it somewhere in the depths of the ocean. Between the devil and the deep blue sea. I strive to be as enlightened as many do. But there comes a time when push comes to shove that our floating naked bodies hovering on top of glorious measures and bars of music, just isn't enough for this world. We live in a world where being naked, our own bare selfs, is hidden. Our self is taboo. But violence is advertised. And why shouldn't it be? Haven't we succumbed to being just like the rest of the mammals in the animal world? Except we're given greater opportunities that we pull our pants down, squat, and shit on. We close our eyes really tight, and we pretend the monsters will go away. But they never go away. They just hide under our beds for us to forget about and stumble upon later. Count backwards from one hundred to keep yourself from crying. Do not be vulnerable. Society says so. I want to force myself into your arms so I can steal your warmth and make it my own. I want to jump on your back while you are not looking and knock you down and make you giggle. We are just living these fake lives with fake identities because we don't really know our own. And while we seem so intertwined within each others bodies and minds, its all just a fraud. Close your eyes and pretend. Maybe the monsters will go away. Maybe this one will stick around. Maybe, just maybe the rivers in your mind can run with fresh water again. Who are we kidding? We're too young to know any better. So, excuse me while I sew myself back up shut. Because no one is ever actually going to listen, really listen. That's my story. And I'm sticking to it.

This is how it works.

Edge of a break through or break down? You watch episode after episode of your fantasy life and you day dream about being part of it. You're at work with this blank stare on your face and no one around you realizes the beautiful mind behind it. What you make up in your webs you weave amongst your own thoughts. You see someone you find fascinating and beautiful. And you want them to feel the same way about you. You want to be with them, but only in your daydreams. Because if you had the opportunity to be with them for real in real life, let's just be honest here- you'd throw it away like yesterday's paper. I want you to see me the way I see you. If not anything else, just for one moment. That's the simplicity of one moment. Its aesthetic because its only for an moment. Looking at the air balloons with my big eyes, big pupils. You saw it. Who has it made more? The woman or the mistress? The mistress can never have you fully, but the woman is lied to and cheated on. Both long for the rest of you. The beauty that is within every chord you play on your guitar, every tile in the bathroom floor that no longer exists, every pill you popped to escape your reality when your reality was me. Every lie you tell them to make them think you're not secretly hurting on the inside. You would rather hurt in secret than make them feel bad about causing it. And when there is someone who will never hurt you, you run away. Why is that? You're pressing keys and you're singing songs. You're dropping hints here, lines there, and no one is picking them up. You've given every single ounce of everything you are to someone who will never deserve it in any case scenario. You give it all up. No one will see you the way you want to. You want what you can never have, and that's exactly why you want it. You want someone you can never keep. You like it that way. There are so many promises and goals you make for yourself, but that's the only push you have to be optimistic. Quiet melodies and secrets are what makes your body tingle. Secret sins. You don't even know what that is anymore. The older you get, the more numb you become. I just want to sit someone down and tell them everything. From the beginning. Like a book you pick up and and you just can't bring yourself to put down in order to go to sleep. Then when you finally go to sleep and you never want to wake up. Never want to let go of the wonder your mind makes up. What is everything? How far can you go to escape. Or do the opposite of escape, and be found? Every word you've never said to me runs in circles in my mind. Every word I've never said to you is on the tip of my icy tongue, but they will never spill out. They're a force stronger than any fake emotion I can put out in order to fit into your box....even though I know you won't ever notice that. You kiss her, you lie to her, and yet you tell me your secrets. But you never ask me about mine. One more time, with feeling, love. What has become of us? What are we even trying to do anymore? I barely remember crawling out of your window the morning after. Or screaming at you at the top of my lungs with tears rolling out of my eyes because even then you were not listening to a damn thing I said or felt. You numbed it. And you made me numb it too. You locked me away in the shadows and you hid everything you never wanted anyone to know about because you were ashamed. You lied. You manipulated. You told me that you would wait and you didn't. And you... You stopped loving me when I needed it most. And I never told you that. So many of you.... So I gave up. And I never gave back in. Breathing's just a rhythm. There really isn't anything left to say, but I will still say it. I will scream it. I will latch onto it with nothing but the tips of my fingernails...Because none of you ever really get it, do you? The beauty behind every whisper you hear, every blank stare you see. What's going on inside her mind? You'll never know. Because you'll never ask. And even if you do...what makes you think she'll tell you anyway?

Colorblind.

Where do people go when they close their eyes? And what do people see when they dream? What is it about this place that makes us yearn for a better understanding of the things we know literally nothing about? Do we dream the same things? Do we constantly crave the same feelings? Why does it make you feel safer to be wrapped around in someone else's arms? Why does it make you go faster when someone who let you fall is watching you move? What exactly is it that makes us hope for adventure? And why do we have to ask so many questions to get to it? Our hearts are all heavy but why does it want to be with another heavy heart? Is it compassion? Understanding? Our are we seriously too blind to see the irony? We're all broken enough to be humble. But that's the thing- we're all broken. We all allow ourselves a minute to be overwhelmed and smothered with that constant buzzing feeling of wondering what if. We all make excuses and we all think we are so much more enlightened than everyone around us, and maybe we are, but who are we to assume that? We all have escapes, each different in their own way-just like the cogs and gears grinding within our constant buzzing brains. AND WHY CANT WE JUST TURN IT OFF. Just for one.fucking.second. For a chance to breathe? We're facing the clock, and we're facing some sick fuck sending us to do their bidding dressed like a wretched animal with no sense of what is going on. We're blind, and we think we see see in color. We're deaf and we think we can taste musical symphonies. We take every single tick-every single tock- every single piece of tragedy and trauma- and we put it in a golden locket and hang it from our necks until one day we're literally hanging from our necks. Such beauty wrapped around in such horror. Horror is subjective. You can't love until you can hate- or maybe you cant hate until you can love. and what is the meaning of either? WHO GIVES A SHIT. We're constantly drifting out to sea trying to escape our made up world like we're part of the goddamn truman show. We fill our bodies with chemicals and our minds with noise in order to try and branch out from the "normal" way of thinking and where exactly does it get us? In a worse state of self-loathing and contradicting morality. BUT ITS SO WORTH IT. Isn't it? Thats why we do what we do. That's why we love wreckage. Destruction is art. You are the scum of this planet. Every single one of us are, and that pure simplistic beauty is why we keep the vibrations rumbling on this ever so patient planet. If I'm not under your skin by now, then stop wasting your own time. There isn't anything except for nothing. Its simple and complex and we cannot stand it. We are the errand boys for someone who functions the exact same way we do. Someone who eats like we do, shits like we do, and dreams the same way we do. Or maybe not. You muster up every bit of courage you've been storing just to make it to the end of your driveway just to turn back around and hide in your glass home. Its disgusting but its oh so beautiful. Our minds are conformed to this sense of how to do things the "right way." Writing is subjective. Love is subjective. Hate isn't. why do we all have different views on what we think love is, but we all agree on the definition of hate? Why do we get married to people we can't stand and want to screw the life out of the ones we hate? We get excited when things go our way and we throw tantrums when they don't. Where is our common ground? What do you see when you lay your head on your pillow and hope your dreams are as vivid and exciting as the night before? Who do we see in our dreams? Will we ever love someone. will we ever connect with someone. will we ever get over our own needs in a chance to be with someone we don't even know? Ive picked out all my favorite flavors in my bag of candy. All that is left are the oranges and purples. They'll probably be thrown away... but maybe I'll dream about them when its time to escape my reality yet again for the night. And maybe I'll dream about you too... and maybe you'll have the same dream...and maybe when we wake up it will be erased from our memories. Maybe it actually happened in an alternate universe. Maybe we were together for one time. one night. somewhere. maybe.