Random
Writing, writing, writing. It's not that long. Please read? Comment?
I have a lot of questions for you.
I want to know why I hate you so much. I want to know why you make my blood boil and my heart beat and my breath freeze. I want to know why I dig into the palms of my hands with burning fingernails every time I see you. I want to know why I bleed over the anger. I hate the way you confuse me, and I want to know how you do it.
I also want to know why I’m lying every time I say that I hate you.
I want to know what makes you so special. I really do. You can probably tell me. I can feel the heat from your body when you pass half a street away, and I want to know why it attracts me.
But mostly, I want to know why I want you so much. I wouldn’t call it love, but it’s never been lust. I want to know why I want to touch you, when I don’t find you exceptionally physically appealing. I don’t even know you. We’re strangers passing through parallel worlds.
I want to dig around inside your head, opening every perfect scar and insinuating curious fingers deeper and deeper into memories and secrets. I want to know your thoughts.
I have a lot of questions for you.
But you never answer.
-------
And then there’s times when I think about you with blank and apathetic musings, staring off into a world that’s perpendicular to ours, pushing closer and closer, then tantalizingly drawing away. And then I’ll remember that it’s a world I made up, and it has nothing to do with mixing the walls of our universes. Yours is made of glass, and I could shatter it with a finger touch, if it weren’t for the concrete surrounding mine.
Emotions are such terrible things. The cause of them is even worse. You’re a catalyst. It’s because of you that I have to hate, love, fear, and sob. It’s because of you that I have to be angry and apathetic.
But I won’t waste more emotion by telling you how much I despise it.
I want to worm my way inside you, until even thinking hurts you too much, just so you’ll know a fraction of pain. Revenge is sweet. Pain is bitter.
And then I want to hold you in my hand, my fingers pressing too close for comfort. I want you to know that I could pull off your wings and squeeze your heart until it burst. And then I want to open my hands and see if you fly away.
How can wanting hurt so much?
-------
Time is a funny thing. Like ebony waves pound ivory shores, it sinks into the spaces between grains of sand. It rolls in, sometimes slowly, sometimes faster than thought, taking forever to reach, and leaving too soon. And how quickly can it take away beloved treasures? An inner-tube. A shovel. A person.
Time is ruthless and patient. Time is everlastingly, and infinity scares me. Eternity with anyone seems wrong. Eternity with you terrifies me.
But I still want you.
Time can do this. Time is what makes me fear. It makes me tremble away each passing year, each day, each minute, until each second holds forever.
Time is how I love you.
-------
Can words even begin to describe you, without seeming petty and anxious? Can I describe you with a mirage of letters? Why can’t I just lock you away, so I don’t have to describe you anymore?
But the more I love you away, and the more locks I add to your door, the harder you push out, until I’m almost tempted to sever the mortar between the bricks and shatter the glass that separates us.
But I never will. I’m afraid of being weak, of being dependant. I could learn to depend on you, and I won’t. So I’ll keep locking you away, keep building up more walls to keep from shattering glass. Once in a while, maybe I’ll sneak your picture out of my sock drawer.
But I won’t look at you. Not directly, I can’t. Because some fragment of me will cease to exist, and I won’t loose anything else to you.
I’ll add more locks, build stronger walls, throw away the keys. Anything to keep you from coming back. But mostly to reassure myself.
Because you never stop returning.
We could be so perfect...why do you keep stopping me where I stand? Why do you make me think?
Why do you have to even exist?
Why do you have to even exist?
I guess if it wasn’t you, it would be someone else. But no one else like you exists. Someone else would be less of challenge, less of a desire, less of a joy.
You’re perfect.
And I wish I could tell the truth every time I say I hate you.
I have a lot of questions for you.
I want to know why I hate you so much. I want to know why you make my blood boil and my heart beat and my breath freeze. I want to know why I dig into the palms of my hands with burning fingernails every time I see you. I want to know why I bleed over the anger. I hate the way you confuse me, and I want to know how you do it.
I also want to know why I’m lying every time I say that I hate you.
I want to know what makes you so special. I really do. You can probably tell me. I can feel the heat from your body when you pass half a street away, and I want to know why it attracts me.
But mostly, I want to know why I want you so much. I wouldn’t call it love, but it’s never been lust. I want to know why I want to touch you, when I don’t find you exceptionally physically appealing. I don’t even know you. We’re strangers passing through parallel worlds.
I want to dig around inside your head, opening every perfect scar and insinuating curious fingers deeper and deeper into memories and secrets. I want to know your thoughts.
I have a lot of questions for you.
But you never answer.
-------
And then there’s times when I think about you with blank and apathetic musings, staring off into a world that’s perpendicular to ours, pushing closer and closer, then tantalizingly drawing away. And then I’ll remember that it’s a world I made up, and it has nothing to do with mixing the walls of our universes. Yours is made of glass, and I could shatter it with a finger touch, if it weren’t for the concrete surrounding mine.
Emotions are such terrible things. The cause of them is even worse. You’re a catalyst. It’s because of you that I have to hate, love, fear, and sob. It’s because of you that I have to be angry and apathetic.
But I won’t waste more emotion by telling you how much I despise it.
I want to worm my way inside you, until even thinking hurts you too much, just so you’ll know a fraction of pain. Revenge is sweet. Pain is bitter.
And then I want to hold you in my hand, my fingers pressing too close for comfort. I want you to know that I could pull off your wings and squeeze your heart until it burst. And then I want to open my hands and see if you fly away.
How can wanting hurt so much?
-------
Time is a funny thing. Like ebony waves pound ivory shores, it sinks into the spaces between grains of sand. It rolls in, sometimes slowly, sometimes faster than thought, taking forever to reach, and leaving too soon. And how quickly can it take away beloved treasures? An inner-tube. A shovel. A person.
Time is ruthless and patient. Time is everlastingly, and infinity scares me. Eternity with anyone seems wrong. Eternity with you terrifies me.
But I still want you.
Time can do this. Time is what makes me fear. It makes me tremble away each passing year, each day, each minute, until each second holds forever.
Time is how I love you.
-------
Can words even begin to describe you, without seeming petty and anxious? Can I describe you with a mirage of letters? Why can’t I just lock you away, so I don’t have to describe you anymore?
But the more I love you away, and the more locks I add to your door, the harder you push out, until I’m almost tempted to sever the mortar between the bricks and shatter the glass that separates us.
But I never will. I’m afraid of being weak, of being dependant. I could learn to depend on you, and I won’t. So I’ll keep locking you away, keep building up more walls to keep from shattering glass. Once in a while, maybe I’ll sneak your picture out of my sock drawer.
But I won’t look at you. Not directly, I can’t. Because some fragment of me will cease to exist, and I won’t loose anything else to you.
I’ll add more locks, build stronger walls, throw away the keys. Anything to keep you from coming back. But mostly to reassure myself.
Because you never stop returning.
We could be so perfect...why do you keep stopping me where I stand? Why do you make me think?
Why do you have to even exist?
Why do you have to even exist?
I guess if it wasn’t you, it would be someone else. But no one else like you exists. Someone else would be less of challenge, less of a desire, less of a joy.
You’re perfect.
And I wish I could tell the truth every time I say I hate you.