Sunbathed Rubber Bands

I can hear them. In my head, between my ears, snapping, like chapped rubber bands, like unmoisterized latex, snapping away against the side of my head, every memory gone with it. Every slip of confidence slipping, cracking, snapping, just like old rubber bands. It hurts both in my head and in my gut. I'm tired but not exhausted, restless in the empty part of the glass. 

Bluntly, let me state this, out there and open. Have you ever sat there in the car and thought "open the door, tuck and roll out, head squashed by on coming wheel and POOF." or even just "a little swerve there, here, lose some control, head on hit." It's simple, it's fast, it's comforting some how, it's scary. I'm not always sad, not always uninterested, not always tired, just curious. You think it's wrong to wonder, to wonder about that, to think about that, I think it's normal, I think that I'm fine, nothing is wrong with me, but something is wrong with us. 

I'm exhausted now. Night.

What it is.

It's more than sunflowers against your cheeks, more than velvet carpet against barefeet, more than silk hamocks and fleece in the winter. It's much more than the movement of slowly swirling hot water, much more than the soft voice of your favorite musician, much more than laying in your own bed after a week from home. It's a little more than hugs that fit, a little more than the happy ending of a dream, a little more than getting the food you crave, a little more than a sunny day of 75 degrees with slow winds and 3 puffs of clouds total. It's daily morning kisses with the closing smile, it's small jokes and playful roleplay during the dull parts of work, it's walking in on a spot on the couch ready for you to relax in, it's spending the night tucked cozily into the arms of another and knowing you'll be able to sleep there until you feel like waking up.

It's love.

Dancing

Fox trot. Tango. Waltz. Bboy. Salsa. Hell, even the hokey pokey. Dancing isn't waving around, it isn't just moving smoothly and with rhythm, it's telling a story. It's like poetry without the iambic pentameter or the end rhyme, a story. Dancing, music, poetry, stories, they've all brought me to tears of observance and understanding. It's like having your body drained of water, or contents, of insides, and being refilled and stuffed packed with music or movements of smooth dancing. Like thick cotton candy, or a good hot plate of pasta when thats all you're in the mood for, smooth four cheese tomato sauce spread on top of some well cooked manicotti noodles.

My urge, my desire more so to dance is so overwhelming that my knees have been dirty for year as I've prayed. To be able to move with grace and be gazed at as if you were floating or a well oiled machine moving with ease against the wind.... I just want to dance.

Hot Hot Potato Water

My skin; pink and in liquid flames. I make underwater cyclones in droning. They fascinate me more than current life. Under the water, spinning, elegant and smooth. Glossy like lollipops at amusement parks, or circuses, or entertainment places period. Flip it upside down, the cyclone, and it hardens, it becomes colorful and tasteless besides the pure nova cane sugar. Life, flip it upside down and I reach a score of 999 instead. My day was good, my braces are weightless, my test was perfect, my detention was extra credit, everything smells good and he responds with "I love you" instead of silence.

But life isn't lollipops, it's underwater cyclones. My score wasn't 999, my day wasn't good, my braces are like cars hanging off my teeth, my test was whatever it is I guessed, my detention was for sleeping, things don't smell at all and he didn't respond at all. 

I am weighed down, I am eyeless, earless, mouthless save for the tear holes on my face. My nose is scrunched together to block out smell. The inside of my characterless face is cut up and I am waiting. My skin like heavy velvet, and I wait, motionless, weighed down. The only thing I feel is my heart, still pounding, still strong, still waiting like me.

Full To Puke

"Eat more." "Eat this." Eat that." "Oh eat my blah blahllbkjaslkdj. You'll gain weight in seconds!"

You know what, SHUSH. Some people praise anorexia, some pray to be thin, some beg and plead and wish to lose five pounds so they can fit through the door. You know what skinny people pray for? I have no idea, but I pray to be a little fatter. I wish that maybe my hip bones wouldn't jut out and stab everyone. I wish you couldn't see the veins in my arms from miles away. I wish my elbows didn't represent crossbows. I wish my ribs didn't stick out more than my boobs did. I don't have a sickness, I'm not bulimic, I'm not anorexic, I do eat, I was just "gifted" with a metabolism that works like it's got a life long dose of speed. I could probably enjoy it better if not for all those people piling around me trying to shove biscuits, gravy, and only god knows what else down my throat only so I can be like them. Is it because I make you feel bad with the way I look? Well deal with it and leave me alone. I'll deal with MY own weight, I know how to handle it, I know how to change, thanks. 

On a lighter note however, I was stretched out in the tub and I noticed that.... my hip bones, AKA hip daggers, are no longer hip daggers. More like hip swiss army knives. I feel accomplished.

And fin.

I Know Sense Reaper

I feel like a mangy thief. A thief of happiness, goods, innocence, youth... A bringer of regret and remorse. My soul purpose is to take the first of many things and leave you with a dirty, filthy feeling. Like mud under your nails, thats where I lay. Every thick brown grain crunching and grinding against your skin and under your nails until it reaches that sensitive spot where you hate to be touched. Or even worse, chalk under your nails. It makes my teeth tingle.

But anyways, onto the reason I'm writing this. I've been taking firsts of this and that and firsts over here and there. I offer to take your first of the big thing and you agree instantly, you love me. A lot of you do. I could take all your firsts, play you all and make you feel horrible. I'll feel horrible. I wish I was Russian but then would you love me? No. So I will pretend just like you did, and maybe the rest of you did, and be okay with it. I'll pretend I want you, pretend I like you, love you, am cool with you and cool with them all, you'll love me, and I'll snatch it from you and leave in a fit of guilt and anger. You'll die I hope. But my hopes are never answered, wishes always resigned. I can still wish a type of death on you, or that I left an impression, a killer sting in your arm. But I didn't. I am a murderer underwater, fingerprint-less and DNA a drift all along the planet.

Coooooooooool

Alright here it is. I hate it all. Not sickeningly, but enough to want to shout a good "fuck you" at you at some point when you crawl. Which you won't, because I want it. Oh wait, but you do what I want don't you? Tell me what I want to hear? Obviously you don't know too well, for as smart as you are. You're frustrating, aren't you all. I can hear myself swallow hard and I'll still keep my fingers clenched tight to my palm, only to release in a shriek of remorse. The roof of my mouth scraped, raw, throbbing and all I can truly think about is how messy I can be. How sloppy. How you'll never even see this. Come July, it'll be forgotten, and if not I'll be jelly elbowed and jelly kneed, and jelly brained. But hey, c'mon, tell me you're fine, you'll suck it up, tell me you're a man because thats ALL I ever wanted to hear, or so you thought. It's not. I wanted to hear what you actually felt you robot. You tall tower of metal. Of computer insides and outs. I used to kick computers and now all I do is depend on them. But enough of that, I kind of hate you. I kind of hate what it's all done, and what I can know and see now. I kind of hate you all.

Well I lost it even though I'm still in that brooding mood, I lost it.

Vomity Turmoil

Everytime you talk, every syllable you speak of him and every ounce of energy you throw into working under him brings my stomach to it's knees. The thing that holds communion, that holds meals and food that we've shared is brought into raw anger. It's been close to seven years now, if not more, that I've had to endure his mannerisms of life. Seven years of ignorance, seven years of visualizations of your demeanor. Seven years of humiliation. Physical fuckety has taken place in me. Physically ill will. Ill actions. Not even a thirst for torture, but more to flex the muscles of my fingers into his eyes. To surpass my strength limits and snap him into a contortion of illusions. My teeth clench in insanity to break bones, to hear them crack and grind inside his body. I have lost communication skills in such turmoil. In such vexation. I've lost th----.....

What Are You At Me

I'll know, I'll know he won't read this. He'll "know" I'm fine, but I'll know I'm struggling. I have no true freedom of speech, mentally, or anywhere, anyhow or who. With any person, place or thing. Even without a government, without a brain, it is all controlled and maintained in some way. The hidden OCD of nature. 

I lost it.

Peas

The first night I spend in your bed my skin will crawl. My body will ache through to the bone from exhaustion and my eyes will be set aflame as blinking does not exist. Breathing will be easy but it will be voluntary and all too soon every minute. My hair will flail across my face and deceive you that I am sleeping. As you glide down the side of the hole into a deeper sleep I will turn my legs, my knees creaking from misuse, and I will sit at the edge of the bed. My sandpaper hands will come to my face and drag my lids down as I sit there for minutes, hours, all until you wake up. "Whats wrong, you alright?" No no, thats all wrong. More like "***, come back to be-- " no no, thats not right either. What would you say? Would you say anything at all? Is this too many questions? That was bitter. Sleep draws back in fear from the hours of night and I am left posting.

Antsy - All The While A Smile

I forgot what real butterflies felt like. They weren't flapping, instead.. resting on the inside along my stomach and what have you. At this moment I didn't think "ants", I thought "butterflies". No longer ants, no longer creepy crawlies or centipedes. But butterflies. My head lolled as did everyone else's limbs. Breathing calm. Hands warm and nervous. Eyes happily glazed as doughnuts. I have potential, as do they. In my head odds are no factor, odds do not exist. It is solely what I like and what I can try for all the while a smile.

I'm in no real mood to write, but I'm in a mood for back-rubs, late night conversations, intense blushes and uncontrollable giggles, forehead kisses, and then drifting into unconscious bliss. Waking before dawn, keeping the rooms dark and warm, watching as pixels move across the TV in kung-fu action. It's all been waiting, as have I.

Love Is Energy

I was naive to it. To truth. I was naive to the thing I cherished most. Patted down with a shovel I thought it was hidden, away, but like energy it cannot be destroyed, only transfered. And thats what it was, transfered. I felt good, I felt fresh and healthy and now I'm thrown back into the muck I burried it in. A shovel thrown on top of my shoulders as a finger points and tells me to dig. Secretly, when hes not looking I scoop more dirt on top but then he turns and I continue, grain by grain. A ton or three of dirt to remove just to be half way there and already my shoulders ache, my back cracks, my bones are brittle and I starve as I work. I sleep in the dirt, I work in the dirt, I bathe in the dirt. It stains my clothes, my skin, it gets into my ears and my bloodstream carries the dirt all throughout my body. I can feel the dirt crumbs running through my veins and through my heart but still I work in the dirt.