tell me the purpose of patience. i have a picture of how happy i can look, in an embrace. transform all of my stills into always. changing lovers, changing time zones--the difference is negligible. i'm forced to accept a path that many others have traveled. again, the difference is negligible. i have an unmade bed.
i have all of the symptoms: lonely, when i am not, forced into misery, afraid of dissipation, analytical to a fault, confused.
everyone lets go. no one holds on. the right words, the wrong actions. action. i don't live in a fucking movie. i can wish until i'm dead, and that is the point, isn't it.
recycle recycle recycle. i need to find a cave by the ocean, where i can scream, and kick sand, and be cold to the point of indifference to pain. i would hit and pound and cut my arms on the rocks, and i would cry, as a dedication. i could sit in the sand as the foam rushed towards me and the sun died. the clouds would be a dim grey, barely noticeable against the #999999 sky. how poetic, no. once the rage and adrenaline subsided, i could lay back, my impression welcomed, as every wave caused me to drift further out, and i would close my eyes, finally, as i sunk. but not before i felt the chill of the wind on wet skin and saw the glory of the evening moon. i'd be singing a song in my head, as my teeth were chattering, and my body was gasping for air, not wanting to be separated from its only function--living. it is a futile effort, one that is expended hastily.
deeper, you say, closer, harder, more. more. more.
i miss seeing him swallow, from a side view. his chest rising and falling as he breathes. the rustle of the sheets as he turns away. in the beginning, these movements are worshipped. the lull we fall into is inevitable? i want to worship you. i want to worship every idiosyncrasy, every flaw, every cell. devotion. unfailing. did you get what you wanted? do you?
tell me the purpose of patience. i have a picture of how happy i can look, in an embrace. transform all of my stills into always. changing lovers, changing time zones--the difference is negligible. i'm forced to accept a path that many others have traveled. again, the difference is negligible. i have an unmade bed.
i have all of the symptoms: lonely, when i am not, forced into misery, afraid of dissipation, analytical to a fault, confused.
everyone lets go. no one holds on. the right words, the wrong actions. action. i don't live in a fucking movie. i can wish until i'm dead, and that is the point, isn't it.
recycle recycle recycle. i need to find a cave by the ocean, where i can scream, and kick sand, and be cold to the point of indifference to pain. i would hit and pound and cut my arms on the rocks, and i would cry, as a dedication. i could sit in the sand as the foam rushed towards me and the sun died. the clouds would be a dim grey, barely noticeable against the #999999 sky. how poetic, no. once the rage and adrenaline subsided, i could lay back, my impression welcomed, as every wave caused me to drift further out, and i would close my eyes, finally, as i sunk. but not before i felt the chill of the wind on wet skin and saw the glory of the evening moon. i'd be singing a song in my head, as my teeth were chattering, and my body was gasping for air, not wanting to be separated from its only function--living. it is a futile effort, one that is expended hastily.
deeper, you say, closer, harder, more. more. more.
i miss seeing him swallow, from a side view. his chest rising and falling as he breathes. the rustle of the sheets as he turns away. in the beginning, these movements are worshipped. the lull we fall into is inevitable? i want to worship you. i want to worship every idiosyncrasy, every flaw, every cell. devotion. unfailing. did you get what you wanted? do you?
you
don't deserve me.
(i don't mean you.)
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