Recrastination

Mountains move when my fingers strike
yet they cannot rumble
Heavy rain on the streets
but I’m stuck with clear skies
trot trot trot trot trot
hooves on the cobblestone
but now they’re silent.

I hate when this happens

I can’t see how I saw what I saw in you

So this is it, the end of whatever this was.

A friendship? I guess. We acted like friends. Sometimes anyways.
A crutch? Absolutely. When I was running off the rails I’d always come back to you to dole out my abuse. You made my soul ache for that unhealthy part of you.
An escape? Yeah, I think so. You let me be me. Wild, unpredictable me. Nobody had ever done that.
A mistake? I’m pretty sure this is the most accurate. You brought out the worst in me and I brought out the worst in you. We ignited the sky with our destruction and reveled in it. Nothing is as beautiful as falling ash against the horizon, lit ablaze.

I still want you. I can’t understand it but I still want to rip the clothes from your body and impale myself onto your desire for me. The welts from my nails down your chest and my dental records imprinted on your shoulders.
Tell me all of the dirty thoughts that run through your head. Speak them into life. Will them into existence. Use me. Toy with me. Make me kneel. Make it hurt.

That isn’t who you really were though. The foul-mouthed man who made me giddy with bad ideas and the desire to fuck them into life. You couldn’t be him. It was a play. You were soft. You were weak. The restlessness inside of me overwhelmed you and you wilted. You were one of my biggest disappointments.

And I still stand here disappointed as you walk away. Disappointed it wasn’t better. Disappointed it wasn’t sooner. Disappointed that I didn’t have anything to scream at you with tears in my eyes. Disappointed you didn’t call me one last nasty name. Disappointed it ever happened in the first place.

That One Time

I never felt as loved as the time you said you missed me.
You didn’t say it, that you missed me
but it was implied.

We hadn’t talked all day
which was rare
because even busy I always found time to find you.

It was late.
I was late
but I would never finish 24 hours without a word your way.

It was a text
but at least it was something.
Swiftly, deftly, clear.

I miss you.
Sorry I’m not there
or some other type of longing.

But my words never made it.
They were interrupted.
Halted. Ceased. Deterred.

Instead of my words laying sweetly on your screen
Engaging in my nothings on how I miss you
Your words did so to me.

You didn’t say you missed me
You didn’t say you need me
All you said was “you there?”

Its all I needed to smile
To beam
To set off fireworks in a still nights sky.

You missed me
You had waited for me and wondered where I was
and when I would be there.

You missed me
At the end of the night you reached out
not wanting to wait until morning

You missed me
I couldn’t wait
I was a need of yours.

I said something back
Overly apologetic and obsessive, but I was always like that
and yet still missed me.

Dictionary

Is there a word for the excitement you have when you bring home a bag of clothes you just bought and can’t wait to try them on?

(I hate fitting rooms and refuse to use them)

Is there a word for the utter desolation and defeat you feel when none of them fit properly and I just made myself feel so disgusting?

(I should probably use the fitting rooms)

This is me, crying in bed, feeling sorry for myself. Hopefully tomorrow isn’t as damning.

Selfish

Yellow signs tell me to stop, or slow down, and let passersby pass by, but my foot is feeling heavy and I want to be first for a change. I always let people go ahead of me.
Hold the door.
Wait in line.
“Sorry, no, go ahead. I’m not in any hurry.”

Its my turn to be aggressive. I’m going to take what I want.
Breakneck speed on ice. I’ve never learned to skate so this could hurt.

If I don’t look out for me then who will? If I don’t set it all up to be my tower nobody is going to build it for me. All the worlds a stage and it’s my turn to speak, even if it is just a soliloquy.
Shakespeare might have had the words but those men never looked as good in a dress as I do. Lets dance through the stanza’s and weave words of dissonance. Contrast and compare. Opposites don’t always attract.

I’m not sure where I’m going with this but the word dump can be fun sometimes.

It’s all spent on me today. The pounds of flesh and pennies on the floor.
Bank accounts empty and I’ve got a lot of nothing to show for it, but its my nothing. I picked it out and set it up.
It’s my nothing and that means everything.

I adore you

I am in love with you. I write so much about this fact and I can’t escape it. I am in love with you and I have been since the moment I told you, and well before that.

I was in love with you very early on because that’s the type of person I am, when someone shows me the kind of attention you gave me I consider it love. I don’t know if its misconstrued love that I’ve put on you, too much for someone so early in knowing them and that is why I kept it in. I didn’t want to bury the sapling in soil and hope it’s peak could fight through.

I couldn’t hold it in though. My love shined through in my actions and my demeanor. The way my face lit up when I saw you and the depth at which my hugs squeezed around your neck could keep no secrets. I don’t know if you knew it then, but I did. I’m not given enough credit for how hard it was to not kiss those words onto your face a thousand times a day.

“I love you. I love you. God damnit, I love you.”

And of course I told you too soon. It was just us and I couldn’t keep the sun from shining anymore. I was bursting. I lied though. I said I thought I was falling in love with you when I already knew I was there. I felt stupid. I felt childish. I was nervous and my knees and elbows ached in awkward positions trying to hold it back.
I caved fairly quickly and admitted I was in love with you already. I’m incapable of deceit when it comes to something I care for so deeply. Why do we feel we need to hide these feelings from people when they’re so pure?

We know what happened next. You were sweet about it, but non committal. I accepted your response with reserved gratitude. You adored me, is how you put it. I thought it was reasonable because, why not? Not everyone is as unabashedly lovesick as I am. I couldn’t expect it from you, as much as I wanted it. As much as my dreams dreamt of it and my wildest fantasies ran with it hand in hand through my delusions, it wasn’t reasonable. But I know I loved you and I know it still.

We didn’t last long after that. You pulled away. I went insane.

When we love so wholeheartedly and that love is not reciprocated can we be blamed when we act irrationally? It is not justifying those actions, however, in every happy moment we’d ever shared I’m told that it meant more to me than to you. You ran out of room from all of the smiles I gave you and you started tossing them in the trash because you didn’t need them anymore. When my kisses covered your face you’d wipe them away when I turned around. You didn’t have to love me, but you didn’t have accept my love as if you did.

I still haven’t been able to exorcise our past from my heart. It’s still haunted by you. It still beats for you. It still yearns for those eyes as they stared at me and made my breath flutter. As you held my gasps in the palm of your hand and my entirety crashed onto you like waves on the shore.
I love you. I’m afraid I will always love you. It’s a sickness that I will carry with me until my body withers away. I’ll think of you on my deathbed and wish how I could have heard you say it back to me just once. To look into your eyes and watch your lips move as they say those words I wanted so badly.

I love you too.

Say pretty please

Being naked around you was hard. You weren’t like a lot of other men I had dallied around with in that I could never read your expression. I could never read your thoughts.
The others? I knew what they thought and I knew what they wanted. I was to be traversed. I was to be scaled. Conquered. Ascended. Mounted.
They couldn’t hide their desire, it dripped from the corners of their mouth when their teeth were bared. From that dripping I knew what they thought; I was dinner and they were going to feast.
But you just stared at me. Not through me or past me, but at me. You studied me, as if you were taking measurements of the terrain so your hand placement and footing would be exact.
You plotted your next move. There was no instinct or wild fury that you unleashed. Everything you did was for a reason. When you cupped between my legs it was to loosen my back and knees to make me more pliable. Your thumb against my lips was to coax me to suckle and bite at it, and when I did you would redirect my face to the side so you could sink your teeth into my neck. And even this act, something seemingly driven by hunger was meant to have me make one of two moves; bring you in tight with my legs wrapping around your waist or to drop listless into your arms and become an amenable doll for your every whim.

Even if we shared these moments of carnal depravity I still questioned your mind. You wanted me, or did you? I’d had become so accustomed to being ravaged that a methodical approach to orgasmic bliss never became comfortable. Although that is the story of our relationship, I was never fully comfortable with you and you sure as hell weren’t with me. But when you wanted me you were of single mind and focus. I never knew what hit me.

But being naked around you was hard, which was strange because I had never felt self conscious about my body. Men usually grunted in approval when I disrobed. I grew to enjoy that sound because it felt natural. It was pure. You can’t fake that.
That stare of yours was piercing and I felt you could read my thoughts. You could pick out every insecurity that I had. My breasts were too small. My shoulders too broad. My fingers too thin and long. I wasn’t skinny enough, slightly pudgy and not at all firm like the workout models you were so often known for cavorting with. You didn’t tell me any of these things but society has made every beautiful woman question herself.

To feel less naked I bought a necklace. It was a small, golden necklace that locked at the back of my neck and had another strand that ran a few inches down my chest. It hung there along my cleavage before I removed my bra and I think it distracted you, which was funny to think. The smartest man I’d ever slept with distracted by something shiny. I always smiled when I unhooked my bra for you and that look wavered.
I’d walk over to you and your plotting wasn’t set. Your moves not worked out. The advantage was mine and I plowed myself into you before you could focus. My lips would crash against yours while my hands unbuttoned your shirt all the way down to your pants. A race against time as your disoriented state would only last a short amount of time before adrenaline kicked in. I wanted you in me before that happened.
Often I’d beckon to your masculine nature and kiss whimpers into your ear of wanting and need. I would hypnotize you into controlling your hands to remove your pants and plunge your desire inside of me. Then I had won. You were mine and we would fuck and my hands would be in your hair begging you to finish, all the while you were begging me not to stop.

You were one of my last steps to confidence and it was one of the more difficult lessons to learn. A man can make you feel beautiful, but he can also make you question it if you let him. However, a man will always find you beautiful, and he can’t win if you know that.
You rarely won after that first time. You couldn’t hold your stare on me and I’d win our battle more and more often. We’d both win, in the end, but you were a child and couldn’t stand being on equal footing as if someone knew you than you’d like them to. It’s why we didn’t last.

I’m comfortable in any stage of undress now, thanks to you. I’d say thank you but I think I’d rather just make you wish you could hear those sweet murmuring kisses against your ear begging you to take me. I bet you wish you could still beg me too.

I need to get a life, can I borrow yours?

Do you know what the hardest part of getting over someone is? It’s moving on. 

You can say you don’t love them anymore, even if it is because they moved a few thousand miles away. 
You can say it’s because you finally realized they were no good for you, as you stuff your face with sugary substances in which you can’t even pronounce half of the ingredients.
You can say you’ll never take them back, while you look in your old haunts for a glimpse of their favorite sweater or their car parked in that exact same spot.
You can say it’s because you’ve finally realized your worth, and at the same time practically begging anyone who will talk with you for attention.

You can say so many things about why you’re over someone and why this will be the last time but actually moving on isn’t easy. It’s a grind. It takes time. It takes patience. It takes perseverance. 

It takes not wanting to be lonely anymore. Not the kind of lonely where you’re all alone, but the kind of lonely where you have someone you want to be with but they don’t want to be with you. Where they said they would meet you but never showed up and didn’t say why. Where they did show up but seemed disinterested in your company. When they say, “sorry what?” to practically everything you were excited to tell them. Being alone is better than being lonely with someone.

To finally move on from someone you need to do more than forget them, you need to remember why you tried to forget them in the first place. All of the hurt they caused you when all you wanted to do was make them happy. How many times did you do something nice and they disregarded it? How much effort did you put into their life with little return in your own? How often did you make them cum while they rolled over and went to sleep after?
“I have to get up early, baby. Next time will be all for you.”

There never was a next time.

I am not a strong woman and I have never claimed to be. I’m easily manipulated and fooled. I’m easy to forgive and hard to forget. I bruise and bleed at a gentle blow. My heart is fragile. I am who I am but I keep living the way I know how, even if its wrong. 

Down the wrong street.
On the wrong tracks.
In the wrong direction.

I can’t seem to get myself on the right path, but what I do know is that when I’ve moved on I’m gone.

If our world were a TV show we would be appalled

I want to scream. I want to scream, I want to scream. I want to scream!

I-WANT-TO-SCREAM!

I’d never speak again from all of the travesties I’ve witnessed. My voice hoarse and ragged. 
How is this world even possible? How did we get here?

Everything is a joke, and not the funny kind that make you chuckle then scroll by. 
How can we throw away people as if they don’t matter? As if they’re a nuisance to consider because the problem isn’t easy to solve?

_{I want to scream.}

I want my voice to shatter glass and put the world in a dizzying haze. Let it stumble about with no bearings. Let it fall and feel sick while the sound of retching sings. Do you think that would be enough to understand how it feels?

^{Probably not.}

We tell people they need to meet a certain standard to participate in society. A certain look and a certain way about themselves. If they don’t meet this criteria they’re pushed out and a blanket thrown over them. 

Don’t make us see you and feel bad.

Help them. How can we be so callous as to treat them as if they don’t deserve to live. 
Help them. Everyone deserves to live.

Microdosing

I can’t place why, but I’m sure I’ll be mentally unstable when I’m older.

Broken into a thousand pieces. Talking to the birds as if they hear me and respond.

It’s a shame we don’t have those stories anymore, the ones about the house you don’t go to because the lady who lives there is crazy.

Don’t judge. Maybe she’s just still not over some guy who probably doesn’t even remember her name.