(no subject)
1) The phone is empty and the hours fall on by- 9, 10, 11. Half past twelve and the night is creeping in slowly from the windows, flickering the lights, rustling the blinds. A call, of sorts, though 'plea' would be more accurate. Restlessness finds its way in, creeping up the spine, pain begging to be walked away or wind-kissed and I want to give in. It's clear, ok? I get it. I am not welcome here. J called and offered to split some blow, maybe just a gram or two, and I politely declined and what I hate more than being offered is that part of me regrets not taking him up on it. It's been a while since it's been just he and I, and we still never talk about the last time we spent together. Now it's just car-rides and smoking joints, talking about things like throwing knives or the downfall of english literature or joining the circus. I'd pay for some company, about now. It wasn't ever supposed to be like this. Was it ever like anything else? Or did I just sell something off each time. A little bit of me, a little bit of you, I like the give and take but lately I've just been taking everything back.
2) My footprints show where I've been, not where I'm going.
3) I want to take my love and show it to you. Fold it up small and delicate, like a paper crane. Let you hold it in your hands and admire the detail, how it requires skill to take so much and fold it all up so simply. I want to show you I have finesse, that I am graceful and have not been deadened by the touch of others; I still know how to use my hands, I still know how to touch. I can make my love seem seamless, I can hide every crease and torn corner. I can put an entire world in your hand. I cannot put a single word in my mouth. I cannot hide the frayed edges, or reddened eyes. I cannot fold away the scars covering my hands, a canvas of cuts and bruises that you could not bear witness to, but don't worry- they are still soft. My hands know grace, and humility, even when I do not.
2) My footprints show where I've been, not where I'm going.
3) I want to take my love and show it to you. Fold it up small and delicate, like a paper crane. Let you hold it in your hands and admire the detail, how it requires skill to take so much and fold it all up so simply. I want to show you I have finesse, that I am graceful and have not been deadened by the touch of others; I still know how to use my hands, I still know how to touch. I can make my love seem seamless, I can hide every crease and torn corner. I can put an entire world in your hand. I cannot put a single word in my mouth. I cannot hide the frayed edges, or reddened eyes. I cannot fold away the scars covering my hands, a canvas of cuts and bruises that you could not bear witness to, but don't worry- they are still soft. My hands know grace, and humility, even when I do not.