Water Torture.
Whenever I lay down in bed, I can hear them. I can hear them laughing, dancing, talking to each other, and I wonder what is they have that I do not. I am not missing vital pieces to make me a human, maybe a functioning person, but I am human. There is not a great hole in my center, there are things there, good and bad. The serpents den of my heart and the birds nest of my soul, these things exist and are very real. I listen in the darkness, listening to their lives go forth while mine grinds to a halt. I think about your skin in the sunlight, and I roll over in bed. I think about your hair in the wind and I sit up and light a cigarette. Where is this all getting me?
It's not even a sexual thing, I just miss you, the vicinity of you and your ways. I admired the way you could just drop everything and follow your heart. If I followed my heart, I'd be at the bottom of the ocean, unable the escape the weight of its sadness. I want to be happier, but the chemicals were missing from my chemistry set. I want to get better, but there is no cure for this self-pitying lack of restraint. If you showed up in a white lab coat and wrapped your arms around me though, I might at least feel a little better off, at least, I hope so.
The few times I heard you singing, I'd swear I could see some truth in your beliefs. I could feel the blood in my veins vibrating with your voice, I could feel the marrow in my bones pull towards you, you the moon, my body the ocean at the shore. I won't forget your voice and how painful it was knowing it'd be a long time before I'd hear it again, if I ever heard it at all.
I'm not as funny as you thought I was. I merely took my insecurities and forged them into a knife, and I would just fall on it's black blade over and over and over. Knowing the rules of comedy, repetition is key. The pain was the best part though, feeling it swell up, feeling the sweat begin, and then the release, the pain would disappear, it would drift off and the sweat would dry and everyone would be laughing, smiling, they thought I was funny, but they couldn't see me bleeding, couldn't see me crying, couldn't see me giving up. I don't mind making people laugh anymore, it's better than not getting out of bed for weeks on end.
My hands, covered in minuscule cuts from work, they are slowly turning into vaguely dreadful claws. I can't control them sometimes, and I am in bed and I find I have scrolled over your phone number, and I'm about to hit the call button. If it happened, I could hear you, but all I would do is be silent on the my side, not even breathing, holding my breath until my lungs felt like they would burst, and I would hang up. I'd hang up, but I wish I could hang up my hang ups. I've got so many, I feel like a crank caller.
It's not even a sexual thing, I just miss you, the vicinity of you and your ways. I admired the way you could just drop everything and follow your heart. If I followed my heart, I'd be at the bottom of the ocean, unable the escape the weight of its sadness. I want to be happier, but the chemicals were missing from my chemistry set. I want to get better, but there is no cure for this self-pitying lack of restraint. If you showed up in a white lab coat and wrapped your arms around me though, I might at least feel a little better off, at least, I hope so.
The few times I heard you singing, I'd swear I could see some truth in your beliefs. I could feel the blood in my veins vibrating with your voice, I could feel the marrow in my bones pull towards you, you the moon, my body the ocean at the shore. I won't forget your voice and how painful it was knowing it'd be a long time before I'd hear it again, if I ever heard it at all.
I'm not as funny as you thought I was. I merely took my insecurities and forged them into a knife, and I would just fall on it's black blade over and over and over. Knowing the rules of comedy, repetition is key. The pain was the best part though, feeling it swell up, feeling the sweat begin, and then the release, the pain would disappear, it would drift off and the sweat would dry and everyone would be laughing, smiling, they thought I was funny, but they couldn't see me bleeding, couldn't see me crying, couldn't see me giving up. I don't mind making people laugh anymore, it's better than not getting out of bed for weeks on end.
My hands, covered in minuscule cuts from work, they are slowly turning into vaguely dreadful claws. I can't control them sometimes, and I am in bed and I find I have scrolled over your phone number, and I'm about to hit the call button. If it happened, I could hear you, but all I would do is be silent on the my side, not even breathing, holding my breath until my lungs felt like they would burst, and I would hang up. I'd hang up, but I wish I could hang up my hang ups. I've got so many, I feel like a crank caller.