(no subject)
he goes on and on about dancing, standing up at inappropriate moments to play with the invisible energy he wields - i can practically see his hands glowing in the strobing lights. His words are slighty slurred but somehow still in a massive hurry, tripping over themselves to miss the point. He can't stop moving, but more than that is the constant itching, to get into his skin, to get out of it, under it - nothing matters, the fingernails scrape without discrimination, to busy to be ruled over by the jumbled thoughts that spill out of (but never into) his ears. He wants to hug me.
I cant.
I am seventeen again, staring at my junkie boyfriend, seeing the ugly reality of my own existence reflected in the degeneration of the one i claim to love. only now i am twenty one, standing on the street in brooklyn backing away from the man who is supposed to lead me this summer, who is supposed to understand what it means to recover, to stuggle, to crawl out of the bar tarred abyss - he's been there, you see, it's okay.
and now he wants to hug me, to ask me if "we're cool". He silently begs for my approval as he sways in the breeze, unable to distinguish himself from the tingling opiates coursing through him.
I cant.
I cant.
I am seventeen again, staring at my junkie boyfriend, seeing the ugly reality of my own existence reflected in the degeneration of the one i claim to love. only now i am twenty one, standing on the street in brooklyn backing away from the man who is supposed to lead me this summer, who is supposed to understand what it means to recover, to stuggle, to crawl out of the bar tarred abyss - he's been there, you see, it's okay.
and now he wants to hug me, to ask me if "we're cool". He silently begs for my approval as he sways in the breeze, unable to distinguish himself from the tingling opiates coursing through him.
I cant.