Because you told me to write every day...

This is what I think today.

I think that there is no point in telling anyone anything anymore because it's all just the same stories tumbling out of my mouth like I don't already know that you already know what happens.

No more stories.

Not until someone makes them worth telling.

nonsense

Scream so loud it burns your lungs. Sing louder. Dance harder. You're the only one who'll ever know.
Pretend you've let them in. Pretend the dramatic synopsis you give is the truth. You're truth is too dirty, too dark, too lonely. Remember all the words you've read that never give you answers to the questions that haunt you. Keep your sentences short. Keep your eyes cast downward and your gaze misty. Keep your voice low. Hold it all. With your frozen fingers hold everything, everyone you can. Give them all and give them nothing, of you. Climb earnestly. Watch your steps. All your fucking missteps. Blame it on the faith you lack. Blame it on your parents who never taught you. Blame it on your friends who didn't believe in you. Blame it on the lovers that left you. Blame it on the mirror that reflects you're bloodshot eyes.
It's lack of sleep and an obsessive mind. It's worn out ideals and a heart that can't tell right from wrong. It's blocking the light out and keeping strangers in your bed. It's mascara tears and vices. It's prescribed pills from enemies. It's the food you don't eat.
Scream, and blame, and climb. Keep running. Run until you've lost it. Look down on this town, these people, these lessons. Let the sun blind you. Breathe. Let the wind take you.


Learn to regret.


Jump.

For Katie, but not about her.

It's funny because it's not really a scar. The only way myself or anyone else could tell that anything happened is because it dug deep enough to tear through the layer of ink on my skin. It's smooth to the touch like the rest, but when someone asks to see it I get nervous. I assume they'll see it and I'll want to explain what happened, but I don't get a chance. 


It's the same with all the rest of the scars I guess. Most of mine don't show. Most of mine are only known if you've stayed quiet long enough to let me tell you how they got there. And while they still hurt so much, every day, every minute of waking and sleeping I wouldn't give them up. 


I've grown to appreciate them, mostly because I've accumulated so many of my own. I think that's the only way to really understand what I'm trying to say. Because if you can't comprehend what I'm saying it's not any fault of my own. It's because you haven't been cut deep enough yet. You're time will come, and the thing that wounds you might not seem that sharp to me, but you'll bleed, you'll fall to the ground, your knees weak, that place between your heart and your stomach so hollow you forget you should breathe.


And maybe you'll talk to me about it because I promise I will listen like I always do, but I might not be able to give you all of me. Because I'm still looking for sutures to tie together the broken bits I carry around through all of these cities. And I will tell you that it's going to be ok because you're not really living if you're not hurting, I think. And if you haven't been suffocated with hopelessness, been afraid to tell your best friend your dad is in jail, had a parent abandon you, had a lover lie to your face, watched your family members fall apart when they think no one is watching, driven for hours without a destination, been afraid to wake up in the morning, then you might not believe the words I speak.


But I promise life will break you. And you'll start to notice those invisible scars in people, without the words to prove them. And you'll finally understand. 

Dream, Dream, Dream

I used to have this daydream of my life where I'd be sitting in my own living room, drinking tea, writing while my dog was curled up next to me on the couch, listening to the rain outside my window.


It's happening. 


Granted, I hoped I'd be getting paid for the writing, but you can't have it all. Today I realized that perhaps, without me noticing, my dreams are all slowing becoming realities. I think I didn't notice that I am happier, that I am calm, that I am coming to peace with so many things I keep categorizing as tragedies. 
Because finally, all the things I am lacking are made up for by all the conversations I've had on various porches around this city.


It's all happening. 

Inspiration-less

I've been staring at pictures of a girl I don't know for over an hour. She's essentially me, but younger, and thinner, and probably easier to talk to. Easier to get close to. She must smile more. She must laugh louder than I do. And she's probably perfect for you. And I think I knew from the day we met that I wasn't, that it would never last past Sunday morning. 


Maybe I'm breaking my own heart. Because honestly, I don't think I'd know what to do with contentment if I had it. It doesn't suit me. And honestly, I have an uncanny ability to be disappointed.    


So, please forget. I won't look at you with the same eyes. I won't look at you at all. I will look away, from everything, because I'm still the mess they all made me. The mess I'm too tired to clean up. 








I wish a different sentiment would come out of my stupid mouth, or my antsy fingertips. In time...