and not in a good way

im not really here, though compramises are the biggest demands sometimes, and this burden of his compramises are just slowly begining to drawn me in.

im not new, nor can i be when this

new 

thing

refuses to change me

I cant write anymore, and I cant win anymore, and I dont want anymore…but oh just so much more, I want those things I never wanted, I want them so much more, because I cant be anymore, and this

is the new

thing

these days to be depressed,

in bed,

this bed,

Is not new,

and I want it to be.

I am sitting

on the couch,

tv on;

and I say,

I’ll eat you.

“I don’t think there is much left”

Sara has cut her hair short                                                                                                                  As a boy.

Sitting on the couch, she lifts one toe up with a forefinger and thumb, and sneers

At the tv.

Dirty finger nails, my filthy bride                                                                                Faded polkadots and loose blue bottoms,

She picks, picks, picks at the little toe that she’s holding up with the thumb and the forefinger;

my filthy bride, slowly opens up, and smells the weed, and laughs;

“I wish I could stop”

Sara eats, is skin and bones. Sara hates skin

on her toes.

july

4rth

you say, and smile.

July 4rth.

my kindness began,

and i grew

bigger than i’d wanted to

in your dark room.

July 4rth

and we moved

to lighter

pastures

over looking flowers and trees and maybe a dog

July 4rth

since i thought about you.

Im sitting here, after Thirst, crying because he is not here, and thinking god how could a journalism student confuse Coarse for Course, and i havent touched my wine yet.

this here, what i have here, didnt start out as a diary, or maybe it did; what I mean is it wasnt intended to be a diary. I wanted to write about movies and books and songs i went through, yet instead something happened in between, in between writing about bob, and invisible monsters and the next post that made this more about things that happened to me, things that i made happen to me. and now it reads like a road map.

a road map of some sort of self finding, self searching, soul searching i dont know.

something happened, I was in like with a girl, then i was in love with a boy. a boy who’d left me for a girl, a girl who’d left him for no other reason than she was lost and wanted to be something she didnt know half of how to be.

and so i was in love with a boy, and then i was out in the streets because i didnt want to be away from the boy, and so he took me in, i lived in a bachelor, all bunched in, all happy, all pasta dinners, and nutella desserts and p&J breakfasts, and falling sleep on the train to work, and being late to work because i wanted to stay sleeping in his arms.

and then it was a 1 bed room, in front of the place of our first date, when i told him things i never told any one before, across from the place he first kissed me and asked me to wait, and i did, and he came back and told me id waited for nothing. and so i waited for another year.

and so im in love with a boy. who keeps me away from here, because im too happy to write, or maybe real life, the real real life, once it hits you, is too real to write about.

except when he’s gone, and then i cannot sleep, and the red wine wont fix it i dont think, so i wont drink it.

I dont know how to sleep tonight that you are not here. come

back.

I have 7 minutes to write,

you are waiting

outside

snow falls on the ciggarett butt I left

outside,

5 minutes

and im out

5 minutes just wont end

my bomb creator

play me a song

lying in bed this morning,

you say, dont go.

and I will be late for work again.

Im just too tired right now,for this, for us, for I love yous and why dont you cares.  there are things that need to be resolved, that need to be resolved by me. every time I think I have something good coming 3 not so good things happen. and then you say “baby I hope nothing bad ever happens to you” and I say “me too”. and theres no voice mail left, and I dont have an extra 60 cents to spare, and right now, 10 years from now seems too far. and right now 10 years from now seems bleaker than right now. ill be old, 10 years from now, still short, still gaunt, still with that ever haggard look on my face that wont let me wear makeup like all the pretty girl at the cosmetics counter. I can’t wear orange lipstick although I really want to, and I can’t wear any kind of makeup without looking like a poor cosmetics’ counter girl… and my hair is too short to be pretty anymore, and im just too fucking tired for any of this to work.

with you gone, I sit here,

and write for you.

with you gone,

and me here, alone, 

in this house of silent noises, i sit here alone. and wish that youd come back.

and think,

that something,

needs to give.

because im too scared. Im scared of my job, and im scared of my life, and im scared of my degree, and im scared of myself and this codependency youve created where i cant even go to sleep without you, and I need to be in your arms, and have my fingers run through your hair and say baby baby baby how many times you love me baby, and I need you to say find your friend, and I need to say oh baby baby baby baby.

instead  i sit here, in this house of silent noises and dirty dishes i dont want to clean,and a paper i dont want to write and a job I dont want to go to and a life im already tired of.

please come back.

theres nothing left of you.

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