Ending the cycle.

It's been a while, and the time that has passed since I've been here. Timing is always funny when his heavy hand indicates you turn around, look behind you, tricking you into seeing your future as your past. Like a cruel game of pin the tail on the donkey, and you're the ass for it all. 

And what an ass I've been.

Nothing seems to move me out of these depths. Everything I look at suddenly expands into the vastness of time, matter, illusion, to the point where I'm sick of trying, tried of watching myself move aimlessly in and out of cycles. Breathing, suffocating, ascending and sinking at the same time.

I'm ashamed to secretly admit how much I think about opting out. I've been attempting "solitary refinement," only to find myself falling short of an answer as to why I'm trying. Or what I'm working towards. Spoiling myself by rewriting the life equation so I'm not a part of it, effectively punishing myself at the same time. Talk about multi-tasking.

All I want is quiet. And my energy back. Everything I've given away in avoidance of myself. Except I don't know where to start, and every trail leads uphill. The light is beautiful, but my eyes are closed, knees bent, black wings dragging at my feet. No wonder this world is a maze. 

My mind feels like a diamond buried miles below the ocean. 

For now, the rest of it is drowning. 

And I'll keep pushing deeper into the valley, hunting my shadow on the mountain ridges.

After all, that's why I've been spun around, right? 

I find myself so terrified of loving.

What is this thing called "real?"

Everything strings together, yarn on monkey bars, moments eclipse reality.

Dreams questioning my reasons to wake.

I am the shadow in the corner of the playground,

floating in the endless vat of time.

One Two Timers

The emptiness is vast. Seven days I've been home, seven chances to be alone. Even surrounded, in a flurry of snipping scissors, the lines are drawn in heavy definitive ink. Like someone killed a squid to get the point across.

I want to say it's been a month, but it hasn't. It's been longer, optical illusion like. Yet I still can't seem to sync back up. Your feet keep rhythm better than my headphones...the sound distance drowns out all that positive bullshit talk that hippies burn to keep warm. Someone forgot their goji berries this morning.

What a fucking year.

I'm so tired of being along. Even worse I hate people. I hate interacting. I hate this fucking cycle.

But I can't hate him.

Even as my heart breaks. There was no time to prepare. No choice. Adapt or die.

It's hard to tell someone what you want when they're telling you what they need.

Mirror Mirror on the wall....what the fuck do I do now.

these places

In the land I dream
we play games

flowers at war
shock absorbing

demons howl in blurry tumbles
in bloody thickets I roam

blindly burning
silently watching

My night shadow creeps through deep jungle
sleeps with one eye open

fearless and frozen
cliff dive both dead and alive

we all float here
like a waterbed of souls

blankets of black rubber
and violent shaking

slides of fire in lands forbidden
oh what a lovely body

ultimate adventure
looser losses all

battle Royal begins
but ends with morning's call

emotional asphyxiation

If, in parallel universes, there are other living versions of myself, I wonder what hell is being raised for me to get so incredibly dragged down. Like a long spiraling descent, similar to the blackness that blankets you when you're about pass out from asphyxiation.

I feel ridiculous, and I want a fucking cigarette.

Boy was I stupid. Putting my heart right out there as a carrot for the wicked, unable in my own mind to believe that somewhere lurking in love was utter looming disaster; the ticking time bomb like a blood clot on a kamikazi mission for my heart. The road to hell is paved with good intentions. Now I'm wading thick in it, enemy mission accomplished, the porcupine spine that digs in deeper, poisoning my soul.

It steams when I exhale.

And suddenly I am angry like wild fire, violent when my eyes are closed. Keep quite so nobody knows.

July was supposed to be a blessed release from the destruction of June, but all I've found are these hateful weeds sprouting, the aftermath of severance. Sewing the wound closed, the stitches burn. Grit my  teeth against gaping gums, adding a physical dynamic of pain, pulling teeth, and the constant taste of blood in my mouth.

Dark and disturbed indeed. If this is going to be the place I live in, I'm going to ride the fucking monster till it's bones break, skin grinding against cement like a cheese grater. Fuck you.

I'm going to crawl out of this garbage dump of souls, even if it means leaving you behind. You don't get to tear me down like this again. FUCK YOU.

FUCK YOU and your FUCKING ILLNESS. This is the last time you infect me with this sickness.

I'll kill you before I let you kill me.

Fuck you.

compounding factors

PMS. Stress. Probably lacking on protein. Definitely drunk. Emotionally hungry, running on empty, no returned call. "here for you in every way you need."
I'm absolutely over reacting. It's so strange to observe yourself while you're human.

But there's something so frustrating in reading in an online profile that you're looking for a relationship.

In fact, it really got under my skin. The thick shit that's supposed to protect my heart.

Am I taking it personally? yes.

Should I? ....

perhaps that's not the agreement. well, neither were these feelings.

I've never hated hanging out with my friends till you called me needing to talk, and I couldn't answer because I wasn't alone. 7 minutes was the difference of a window passing.

Have I missed it for your heart?

Are you really looking for a relationship? Whatever the fuck that means to you?

Whatever I mean to you?

Sitting in the dirty dark, thousands of miles away from you, I'm drunk with self-absorbed questions.  Because I can't quite understand...are you advertising that to strangers? And if so...then I either failed or never had a chance in the first place....

So, I guess the real question is...which is it?

20 minutes

It overcame me yesterday.

Under the shade of the trees we first peeked at each other from behind, I just started crying.

Fuuuuck. And again, this morning, prompting a 20 minute bucket load of feelings that are not supposed to be there, warm and fluttering to the surface like lilly pads.

I miss him. The grip your chest and twist your heart kind. And I'm so scared that in the wake of me saying "I love you" outside the swimming perimeter of good bye, there will be nothing but silence when the ripples come back from the other side of the lake.

And silence is stronger than words sometimes. Especially when I'm scared. It stretches times like rubber bands around my breath, pulling me lucid, distilling my being.

So if I have to live inside an hourglass, waiting to fall and be tossed upside down again, why not build sandcastles. Beauty is better when it's days are numbered.

But love? I thought we had an agreement.