(no subject)
There's something you should know about me. There is an innumerable amount of things you should know about me. There is nothing you should know about me.
I'm a walking contradiction. Or maybe I'm not. I think I am. I really really think I am. I'll tell you I love you and at one moment I mean it with every fiber of my being. I'll mean it because I really love you. I really really do. I'll mean it because it gives me this feeling inside when I hear those words in that order come out of my mouth. I'll mean it because I love you. I'll tell you I love you and in the next moment I'll realize I'm saying it because that is the routine. “I love you.” “I love you too.” Maybe I don't mean it. Maybe I never did. Just maybe you don't even mean it.
I'm terrified you mean it. I'm terrified I don't.
I hit my cat today. Not like a closed fist punch to the side or an open smack across the face. I mean I actually hit him. Open handed, full force slap down from between his ears to his nose. I hit him. I'm a terrible person. This wasn't a one time thing. I hit him a lot. He cringes if I go to pet him too fast. I hate him. But I don't. I love him. Maybe that's how I love you. Maybe hate and love are the same thing. But I don't hate you. I really really don't.
I have no idea what I'm doing, where I'm going or honestly where I am. You look at me with these eyes that say you are taking in everything you can see, those eyes that would make my heart stop if they ever saw what I actually am. I'll tell you I hate school. I'll tell you I hate work. I'll tell you I want nothing more than to leave this town and never come back. I'll tell you the current is stagnant, the now is stuck and there is no way out. I'll tell you I love you. I mean all of these things, or so I think.
I don't really know how to work on cars. I can change the oil, I can change the alternator, I can rotate the tires, I can even put gas in it. That's all I can do. I make everything up as I go along. I don't ever even finish the tasks I start out to do. I get frustrated and walk away, maybe not ever returning. This is almost how I see us. There is an us. There will always be some form of us. I can hug you, I can kiss you, I can hold you when you're sad and I can even ask you what's wrong. I'm making this up as I go along. I can't rebuild an engine and I can't rebuild your heart. I'll try though, but probably walk away from that too, perhaps never even returning. Leaving that engine block in pieces on the garage floor worse off than it was before I touched it.
I'm going to quit smoking one day. I fully believe this. I need to believe this. Keeping something in my life that is slowly killing me is an obscene choice. I know it's killing me. I like that it's killing me. Something has to because I won't kill me. You won't kill me. This life won't end. And maybe I don't want it to. When I do die they'll take out my black lungs and see the method I used to kill myself. My inability to save myself killed me. You killed me. They won't even take out my black lungs. I'll be burned just like the friendships I burned to make my life worse, or better. Just put me in an ash tray and when that ash tray gets full of cigarette butts dump it in the trash. Maybe that's all I really want. Maybe it's not.
There are so many more things you should know about me. There are even more things you should not know about me. These are things you shouldn't know about me. There are things I should know about you too, so many things, more things than I can count to with all the time left in my black lungs.
But if you know all these things about me and I know all the things about you, then what? What do we do? Maybe we shouldn't know things about each other. Maybe we should know everything about each other. What if I know things about you and start to question us? What if you know things about me and decide to love me more?
Maybe I do love you. I do love you. I really really do.
Maybe.
I'm a walking contradiction. Or maybe I'm not. I think I am. I really really think I am. I'll tell you I love you and at one moment I mean it with every fiber of my being. I'll mean it because I really love you. I really really do. I'll mean it because it gives me this feeling inside when I hear those words in that order come out of my mouth. I'll mean it because I love you. I'll tell you I love you and in the next moment I'll realize I'm saying it because that is the routine. “I love you.” “I love you too.” Maybe I don't mean it. Maybe I never did. Just maybe you don't even mean it.
I'm terrified you mean it. I'm terrified I don't.
I hit my cat today. Not like a closed fist punch to the side or an open smack across the face. I mean I actually hit him. Open handed, full force slap down from between his ears to his nose. I hit him. I'm a terrible person. This wasn't a one time thing. I hit him a lot. He cringes if I go to pet him too fast. I hate him. But I don't. I love him. Maybe that's how I love you. Maybe hate and love are the same thing. But I don't hate you. I really really don't.
I have no idea what I'm doing, where I'm going or honestly where I am. You look at me with these eyes that say you are taking in everything you can see, those eyes that would make my heart stop if they ever saw what I actually am. I'll tell you I hate school. I'll tell you I hate work. I'll tell you I want nothing more than to leave this town and never come back. I'll tell you the current is stagnant, the now is stuck and there is no way out. I'll tell you I love you. I mean all of these things, or so I think.
I don't really know how to work on cars. I can change the oil, I can change the alternator, I can rotate the tires, I can even put gas in it. That's all I can do. I make everything up as I go along. I don't ever even finish the tasks I start out to do. I get frustrated and walk away, maybe not ever returning. This is almost how I see us. There is an us. There will always be some form of us. I can hug you, I can kiss you, I can hold you when you're sad and I can even ask you what's wrong. I'm making this up as I go along. I can't rebuild an engine and I can't rebuild your heart. I'll try though, but probably walk away from that too, perhaps never even returning. Leaving that engine block in pieces on the garage floor worse off than it was before I touched it.
I'm going to quit smoking one day. I fully believe this. I need to believe this. Keeping something in my life that is slowly killing me is an obscene choice. I know it's killing me. I like that it's killing me. Something has to because I won't kill me. You won't kill me. This life won't end. And maybe I don't want it to. When I do die they'll take out my black lungs and see the method I used to kill myself. My inability to save myself killed me. You killed me. They won't even take out my black lungs. I'll be burned just like the friendships I burned to make my life worse, or better. Just put me in an ash tray and when that ash tray gets full of cigarette butts dump it in the trash. Maybe that's all I really want. Maybe it's not.
There are so many more things you should know about me. There are even more things you should not know about me. These are things you shouldn't know about me. There are things I should know about you too, so many things, more things than I can count to with all the time left in my black lungs.
But if you know all these things about me and I know all the things about you, then what? What do we do? Maybe we shouldn't know things about each other. Maybe we should know everything about each other. What if I know things about you and start to question us? What if you know things about me and decide to love me more?
Maybe I do love you. I do love you. I really really do.
Maybe.