29

I want to be one of those people who can talk to the sky and think that someone is listening. As much as I'll agree with those of you who do, and believe that you believe, I don't know that I do. Even if I did, I don't know that it would help.

Because for all the talking and looking for signs the facts remain:
There won't be any new pictures.
My hair was a stupid color the last time he saw me, though he said nothing, standard.
I feel like I didn't do enough in time.
I hope he was proud.
I hope we were friends.

The clouds parted for a minute and I want to blame it on something I can't see and don't feel, but instead I'll attribute it to the wind speeds and keep pulling myself back to Earth; steel myself against everyone's shaky voice, and hide my own under blankets of smoke.

Puberty (abandoning all the rules of writing and making sense)

These feel less like growing pains the older we get and more just like pain. 
Why haven't these things been dealt with?  
Why do I still feel these debilitating pangs I felt so frequently when we were younger?
Screaming at the top of my breath because I can't let anyone hear the sound I'd make if I could articulate whatever this is going on inside me. 
The, ridiculous, self loathing; so intricately built and sturdy, indestructible, I fear. 
The worst case scenario scenes playing on a loop while I try to keep whatever life I stitched together with my shaky hands from tearing apart. I don't even know for sure if anyone is threatening it with scissors. 
I let myself feel too safe. 
Too comfortable.
It's terrifying. 
So, we prepare. 
We used to call each other for help with these things. Don't you feel like it's gotten old? Like we're just talking to ourselves, and we've already tried to hard to pull each other out of the mess, the quicksand that's never as bad as we think? Our lives keep happening in different time zones. And maybe this is just life. Maybe this is it. Maybe we'll always need the pep talks. And maybe everything will always be generally more down than up. Is this what it's like to be an adult? To feel like we did in high school, but with bills to pay, and live in boyfriends, and jobs, and no Christmas break, no breaks ever from anything?
I know, just stop. We're better than this.  
We'll get our shit together. 
Let's just blame it on the moon, my sunshine...

Am I right? I think so, and that's all that matters.

I knew these girls and these boys who steal from people constantly, maybe even subconsciously. But it's necessary, for they'd be invisible without slowing pillaging little bits of other people's personalities.  

You go to shows now? It sure looks cool if you do!
You wear DIY shorts? Punk rock!
You think binge drinking on weekends is something I should be shocked about? Please!
You're such a hopeless mess, right? How hip!

Invent problems. Hide your sorry tongue stumbling over the words that probably came out of someone else's mouth first. I told everyone you'd be the best story he'd ever read. I should have guessed the story would be one I wrote.
You sure said sweet things when you were lying half naked in my bed. And you said them to her, and to her, and to her. Thank you for giving me 100%....of your bullshit.
Bravo. Really, you're playing this part better than I could have expected.

Do you feel bad? Is this about you? Probably.

Command more attention.
Act more like _____ Dress more like _____ Talk more about _____ Listen to _____ Read_____ Drink_____ Smoke_____

Try harder.
Try harder.
Try harder.

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...