Fay says move away
I am enjoying a certain distance. A distance I find in all of my peers and all of my situations. Yet, when that distance is breached minuscule alarms sound in my head and I revert back to my previous state of criticism and mistrust. Please don’t touch me.
I abhor uninvited human contact. I think I would rather eat feces. I can’t begin to explain the feeling in my gut when a person casually rests their hand on my knee or pats my back or brushes their fingers across my face. I want to effectively full force vomit on them.
Don’t touch me. If I wanted to be touched I would be sure to let whoever it was know that. But so far, I just recoil like a viper. I wish I had a better warning system. I’m pretty sure the snake and I have the same thing in mind. We already imagine our strike; we are just waiting for the opportunity to enforce it. So just back off. This closeness makes me exceedingly uncomfortable. There are people who I have met who just make me uncomfortable in general. Ok well the majority of people do that… I wasn’t always this way though. Now I think I like it better. I like my distance and I prefer to keep it that way.
If you think that it’s hopeless for me, well; you’re wrong. There’s a small amount of closeness I enjoy. I won’t say it hasn’t been difficult. It comes in spurts, spontaneous little pockets of bliss. The catch is not to let yourself get caught up in it. Exit just as seamlessly as you entered. Each time, every time.
There’s no forever, there’s no tomorrow, there’s just this moment and it encompasses everything about you and what you believe about in your world. I can’t tell you what difference there is between a touch that has built up momentum through mutual feelings, disagreements, and essentially mutual disregard; from one that is one sided and selfish and crude. You want something that I don’t hold the capacity to give or experience. I am not sure how to tell you that. I am happy with what I have, with my bleeding in and out of emotions, slipping between your ideas of what love should be. Shit can’t aspire to be gold. It’s foolish. Damaged people can’t aspire to be perfect again. You just eventually stumble on someone who is on your level in the dumpster. You find yourselves wedged between moldy hot dogs and something moist and sticky and you don’t aspire to see the sunshine again because you are so accustomed to being in that place, the daylight would surely kill you.
I abhor uninvited human contact. I think I would rather eat feces. I can’t begin to explain the feeling in my gut when a person casually rests their hand on my knee or pats my back or brushes their fingers across my face. I want to effectively full force vomit on them.
Don’t touch me. If I wanted to be touched I would be sure to let whoever it was know that. But so far, I just recoil like a viper. I wish I had a better warning system. I’m pretty sure the snake and I have the same thing in mind. We already imagine our strike; we are just waiting for the opportunity to enforce it. So just back off. This closeness makes me exceedingly uncomfortable. There are people who I have met who just make me uncomfortable in general. Ok well the majority of people do that… I wasn’t always this way though. Now I think I like it better. I like my distance and I prefer to keep it that way.
If you think that it’s hopeless for me, well; you’re wrong. There’s a small amount of closeness I enjoy. I won’t say it hasn’t been difficult. It comes in spurts, spontaneous little pockets of bliss. The catch is not to let yourself get caught up in it. Exit just as seamlessly as you entered. Each time, every time.
There’s no forever, there’s no tomorrow, there’s just this moment and it encompasses everything about you and what you believe about in your world. I can’t tell you what difference there is between a touch that has built up momentum through mutual feelings, disagreements, and essentially mutual disregard; from one that is one sided and selfish and crude. You want something that I don’t hold the capacity to give or experience. I am not sure how to tell you that. I am happy with what I have, with my bleeding in and out of emotions, slipping between your ideas of what love should be. Shit can’t aspire to be gold. It’s foolish. Damaged people can’t aspire to be perfect again. You just eventually stumble on someone who is on your level in the dumpster. You find yourselves wedged between moldy hot dogs and something moist and sticky and you don’t aspire to see the sunshine again because you are so accustomed to being in that place, the daylight would surely kill you.