(no subject)
let me go, love
please?
I woke up early again today - or was it that I wasted yet another night in mangled consciousness? Either way, it was enough to render the faded ring of the alarm that rang afterwards useless, its desperate calls for an awakening lost amid feigned readiness. Yet another disappointment. You ask me if I find comfort in the regularity of such letdowns; and I cannot meet your critical gaze as I mutter out an automatic negative.
Perhaps I do find such uncanny comfort, now. It is no surprise to neither of us anyhow; it is the nature of repetition to bring distorted comfort in regularity. There was disappointment in the tea I drank (a disappointment that grew with added syrup), disappointment in the pancakes that I ate (piles and piles of unresolved disappointment), disappointment in the very air I breathed (toxic, addictive, hazy disappointment). Do I feel discomforted?
On the contrary, I felt more at home, face to face with imperfection. No, it was the smaller, littler things that presented me with tribulation. Are you still there? I might as well tell one of those as you fall asleep - you always found pain to be the sweetest lullaby. Today, I foolishly decided to be productive today and, oh, just do the washing today. Nothing out of the ordinary, like the last time (oh, you’re awake now, are you? Yes, the last time, when the postman forgot that you-). Just the laundry. So how did I end up unconscious, holding a cold cashmere sweater that I’m certain I’ve never worn?
The psychiatrist that visits every Wednesday likes to label me with another one of those long, cruel names.I like to scream my insecurities back at him, pain for title for hurt for research.
Please, if you really loved me.
Let me go, love.
A/N - TO THINK THIS WAS A GIFT.
please?
I woke up early again today - or was it that I wasted yet another night in mangled consciousness? Either way, it was enough to render the faded ring of the alarm that rang afterwards useless, its desperate calls for an awakening lost amid feigned readiness. Yet another disappointment. You ask me if I find comfort in the regularity of such letdowns; and I cannot meet your critical gaze as I mutter out an automatic negative.
Perhaps I do find such uncanny comfort, now. It is no surprise to neither of us anyhow; it is the nature of repetition to bring distorted comfort in regularity. There was disappointment in the tea I drank (a disappointment that grew with added syrup), disappointment in the pancakes that I ate (piles and piles of unresolved disappointment), disappointment in the very air I breathed (toxic, addictive, hazy disappointment). Do I feel discomforted?
On the contrary, I felt more at home, face to face with imperfection. No, it was the smaller, littler things that presented me with tribulation. Are you still there? I might as well tell one of those as you fall asleep - you always found pain to be the sweetest lullaby. Today, I foolishly decided to be productive today and, oh, just do the washing today. Nothing out of the ordinary, like the last time (oh, you’re awake now, are you? Yes, the last time, when the postman forgot that you-). Just the laundry. So how did I end up unconscious, holding a cold cashmere sweater that I’m certain I’ve never worn?
The psychiatrist that visits every Wednesday likes to label me with another one of those long, cruel names.I like to scream my insecurities back at him, pain for title for hurt for research.
Please, if you really loved me.
Let me go, love.
Click to viewA/N - TO THINK THIS WAS A GIFT.