(no subject)
A mix CD, a mess, a collage, a valentine of sorts: things I make when I can’t make sense of the most obvious circumstances. I make myself cry, sometimes, when reflecting on how little I’ve made of myself. It’s a control thing, she explains earnestly, pulling her lower lip between her teeth as I catch myself staring for the fourth time in fifteen minutes. Makes me wish I had less control over my impulses, or maybe more. Makes me wish I’d woken up by noon today; makes me wish I’d never gotten out of bed.
When I don’t know what to want, I want it all. When all of my waking thoughts revolve around simply being touched, being recognized, it’s easier to curl up in bed watching reruns of Degrassi and immersing myself in the lives of those who will never exist, who will never disappoint me. I spend all my time and my restraint keeping myself from situations that could bring me any relief from this solitude. I won’t dial your number (not past the fifth digit, anyhow), and I won’t walk down to your room, and I won’t reach out for you even when you’re close enough for me to count your eyelashes if you’d just keep still (you won’t). And then, what, I have the indulgence to write about how utterly alone I feel? There’s no excuse, none at all, but watch me go on in this way.
I want to cry the way I haven’t since that night weeks ago, cold tiles on the floor and warm skin against mine and nothing left to say. I want pancakes with blueberry syrup and movie-theater popcorn. I want to be able to listen to this song without wondering what you’d hear in it. I want to race my little brother up the stairs until he trips me on the last step and we fall with such force that my father can hear us from the garage. I want to be tucked in and sung to sleep. I want to break something beautiful. I want to know what you want. I want letters and sodas. I want, more than anything, to stop wanting so damn much.
Pathetic lists, sad attempts at reaching out, less sense than before: things I make when I’m all out of ideas. Goodnight.