(no subject)
http://asofterworld.com/clean/royal.jpg
the emptiness that i let you rattle around in--was it too lonely, too stagnant? is it that i didn't offer you enough heat, enough passion, enough of a reaction, enough agitation? your voice was always pitching up and down. solemn lows, eyes bulging with gravity, or eyes narrow with joy, laughing--i didn't try to be like you--was that my downfall? did my lack of flattering mimicry bring you to
disparage
who
i
am?
my own reaction
i guess it's enough to explain why i wasn't adequate. my acceptance, the silence in my chest, the way my breath receded like a tide but, as clockwork, came back. questions answered for professors, answers given to classmates, my smile as honest as it ever is, all making me realize that i expected nothing more, i expected nothing less.
you thrive on being important
i cannot make anyone significant again
perhaps we were fundamentally incompatible
but i won't give you those words because you'd just
use them
as a crutch
in this instance i did everything i could, that i was capable of. i gave the words, the actions, the explanations, the warnings. the idea that i could still be giving you those things, if you hadn't made a mistake in sending--the thought of myself living as if nothing had changed
as if
you could
be
trusted
if it hadn't been for that
fateful
mis-send
what a fool, i would have been
what a fool, i was
what a fool, i refuse to be.
--------------------------------
I am really good at cutting people out of my life. Something in me never quote connects with them, so it's never too hard to snip away those little fibers that connect us. It's like, if everyone else develops roots with others, I develop little tendrils of ivy; little things that can transfer the same kind of energy but aren't devastating for me if they're cut.
I've given up on trusting people. With my track record, it seems that if there is a god he's giving me a hint, and if there isn't, then, all the more reason not to trust in the fundamentals of man.
I can be happy without trust. I can revel in the frivolous things. And when they run out, there are always guns, semis, buildings to jump off of. At the end of the day every person needs a constant; others forge that out of trust for their fellow man, I forge it out of the promise of release if I ever decide I don't want to be a part of this mess.
---------------------------------
the strangest flutter in my chest.........it will not let me get my rest..
---------------------------------
I think, of all things, I am most afraid of waiting. I have spent so much of my life waiting that the thorns that come from it are especially revolting to me. I want to be safe of it, but then, you always have to be in action; it is exhausting to wait, exhausting to be in motion. Eventually the pendulum stops--will my ears continue to strain for the next beat--and if so, for how long? Is the heart a pendulum?
How long can your ears hear for, after your heart stops?
----------------------------------
Sometimes, when I am trying my hardest to fall asleep, the most unsettling little sensations take over my body. My scarred up arm aches as if it were half anesthetized, splayed open on an operation table. I end up slamming my arm against walls, punching it with my right hand--it's like a phantom limb, except more like a dreaming limb, and I just need to wake it up. I've thought about cutting it open to see if maybe these dreams are real; maybe if I operate, I will find little stitches left behind by the doctor, or those instruments they use to keep the body open during surgery; maybe a clamp was left behind--perhaps an intern forgot a wad of gum. In these moments I remind myself that if I am to lose my mind, I have resolved to do so utterly.
When the madwoman creeps in, I will absolve her by wrapping my arms around her; I will jump in front of a semi going at least 50mph and we will die in one anothers embrace. When the bones are crunched and the flesh torn, we will be one, and both of us, that mad girl and I, will never be alone again, for in being strewn apart we will be fused together--never to be lonely again.
------------------------------------
I recently talked to a childhood friend and it was confirmed that I've been identifiably odd since before I hit the double digits. On one level this is comforting--it allows me to shirk responsibility, for perhaps this is just who I am.
On another level, it is despairing.
Because,
perhaps
this is just
who I am.
--------------------------------------
dainty fingers on the keyboard
fly across letters
bound to the earth
---------------------------------------
in my mind women take on the quality of arachnids; their thin fingers make me think of the spindly legs of spiders, and the rouge and pinks painted on their nails and lips remind me of the glowing bait of lantern fish or the lucid crimson of venus fly traps.
when i listen to the honeyed tone of women in heat, at the bars, leaning close in classrooms, batting eyelashes, i feel invariably disgusted and repelled.
when i listen to the disarming tone of women in the company of women, over glasses of wine, television marathons, boxes of tissues, i feel invariably nauseated and tired.
i wish every woman could be spurned.
-----------------------------------------
I find the strangest things about people to be irritating, but usually it comes down to how perceptive or considerate they are. Imperceptive or inconsiderate people enrage me more quickly than most other fare. Considering my generally acerbic tongue and taciturn nature, this is strange coming from me; I will say, though, that I am quite perceptive, and if it is a social situation (this is why I do not often put myself in unnecessary social situations) I am unerringly considerate.
I guess what it comes down to is that I hate people.
------------------------------------------
soon i will rest my eyes and my little tired body.
the emptiness that i let you rattle around in--was it too lonely, too stagnant? is it that i didn't offer you enough heat, enough passion, enough of a reaction, enough agitation? your voice was always pitching up and down. solemn lows, eyes bulging with gravity, or eyes narrow with joy, laughing--i didn't try to be like you--was that my downfall? did my lack of flattering mimicry bring you to
disparage
who
i
am?
my own reaction
i guess it's enough to explain why i wasn't adequate. my acceptance, the silence in my chest, the way my breath receded like a tide but, as clockwork, came back. questions answered for professors, answers given to classmates, my smile as honest as it ever is, all making me realize that i expected nothing more, i expected nothing less.
you thrive on being important
i cannot make anyone significant again
perhaps we were fundamentally incompatible
but i won't give you those words because you'd just
use them
as a crutch
in this instance i did everything i could, that i was capable of. i gave the words, the actions, the explanations, the warnings. the idea that i could still be giving you those things, if you hadn't made a mistake in sending--the thought of myself living as if nothing had changed
as if
you could
be
trusted
if it hadn't been for that
fateful
mis-send
what a fool, i would have been
what a fool, i was
what a fool, i refuse to be.
--------------------------------
I am really good at cutting people out of my life. Something in me never quote connects with them, so it's never too hard to snip away those little fibers that connect us. It's like, if everyone else develops roots with others, I develop little tendrils of ivy; little things that can transfer the same kind of energy but aren't devastating for me if they're cut.
I've given up on trusting people. With my track record, it seems that if there is a god he's giving me a hint, and if there isn't, then, all the more reason not to trust in the fundamentals of man.
I can be happy without trust. I can revel in the frivolous things. And when they run out, there are always guns, semis, buildings to jump off of. At the end of the day every person needs a constant; others forge that out of trust for their fellow man, I forge it out of the promise of release if I ever decide I don't want to be a part of this mess.
---------------------------------
the strangest flutter in my chest.........it will not let me get my rest..
---------------------------------
I think, of all things, I am most afraid of waiting. I have spent so much of my life waiting that the thorns that come from it are especially revolting to me. I want to be safe of it, but then, you always have to be in action; it is exhausting to wait, exhausting to be in motion. Eventually the pendulum stops--will my ears continue to strain for the next beat--and if so, for how long? Is the heart a pendulum?
How long can your ears hear for, after your heart stops?
----------------------------------
Sometimes, when I am trying my hardest to fall asleep, the most unsettling little sensations take over my body. My scarred up arm aches as if it were half anesthetized, splayed open on an operation table. I end up slamming my arm against walls, punching it with my right hand--it's like a phantom limb, except more like a dreaming limb, and I just need to wake it up. I've thought about cutting it open to see if maybe these dreams are real; maybe if I operate, I will find little stitches left behind by the doctor, or those instruments they use to keep the body open during surgery; maybe a clamp was left behind--perhaps an intern forgot a wad of gum. In these moments I remind myself that if I am to lose my mind, I have resolved to do so utterly.
When the madwoman creeps in, I will absolve her by wrapping my arms around her; I will jump in front of a semi going at least 50mph and we will die in one anothers embrace. When the bones are crunched and the flesh torn, we will be one, and both of us, that mad girl and I, will never be alone again, for in being strewn apart we will be fused together--never to be lonely again.
------------------------------------
I recently talked to a childhood friend and it was confirmed that I've been identifiably odd since before I hit the double digits. On one level this is comforting--it allows me to shirk responsibility, for perhaps this is just who I am.
On another level, it is despairing.
Because,
perhaps
this is just
who I am.
--------------------------------------
dainty fingers on the keyboard
fly across letters
bound to the earth
---------------------------------------
in my mind women take on the quality of arachnids; their thin fingers make me think of the spindly legs of spiders, and the rouge and pinks painted on their nails and lips remind me of the glowing bait of lantern fish or the lucid crimson of venus fly traps.
when i listen to the honeyed tone of women in heat, at the bars, leaning close in classrooms, batting eyelashes, i feel invariably disgusted and repelled.
when i listen to the disarming tone of women in the company of women, over glasses of wine, television marathons, boxes of tissues, i feel invariably nauseated and tired.
i wish every woman could be spurned.
-----------------------------------------
I find the strangest things about people to be irritating, but usually it comes down to how perceptive or considerate they are. Imperceptive or inconsiderate people enrage me more quickly than most other fare. Considering my generally acerbic tongue and taciturn nature, this is strange coming from me; I will say, though, that I am quite perceptive, and if it is a social situation (this is why I do not often put myself in unnecessary social situations) I am unerringly considerate.
I guess what it comes down to is that I hate people.
------------------------------------------
soon i will rest my eyes and my little tired body.