still dazzled by his smile when I shoplift there

Mostly, I can't seem to write anymore.

I'm ashamed to say this, because I don't believe in writer's block. But I wouldn't call this writer's block. If it's a block, it assumes there's something past the block. 

But all I see an empty expanse of desert, as fuzzy as my television screen. As fuzzy as my foot that's fallen fast asleep. I stand in the desert, confused and dazed, and all that's left is a box of jumbled up words at my feet. I pick up the box and look around the desert, and wish to fucking god that there was a block somewhere, and that I could consequently climb on top, and maybe spot a direction worth heading for.

But I pick up a stick, and start to write in the sand. Nobody will ever see it, it'll just be our little secret. A secret all for me, but you're welcome to look if you want to.

I don't think I'll ever fall in love. It's just not written on my heart. After all, I only want to fall in love out of sheer curiosity. I plan to be the cold hearted bitch who uses the poor boy, and then publishes a paper on his misfortune. 

Secretly, I sort of dream of being the cold hearted bitch.

And there I was angst-ing about the gay boy using me. If I read what's written on my heart, I maybe did deserve to be the subject of his highly praised, poorly written paper. 

I don’t think I’ll ever fall in love. In order to love, I have to connect, and in order to connect, I have to be vulnerable. And I won’t, I won’t be that vulnerable.

(secretly, I wish I was brave enough to be that vulnerable. I’ll try, I’ll try to be brave enough.)

But a cold hearted queen is just so appealing.

My head is in the oven, my feet are in the freezer. And they’re telling me my body temperature is average. 

Somehow I am always too good for the boy, and not good enough for a relationship. That’s a recipe for restless loneliness. I suppose that’s my average.

He mustn’t look forty. He looks too old. His chin is not strong enough. His arms lack definition. His arms are grossly over-defined. He is too boring. Too smart. He doesn’t talk enough. He doesn’t laugh enough. He is never quite what I want. I am never quite what I want, either, so I shouldn’t be so unforgiving.

He’s only ever perfect when he doesn’t want me anymore.

I don’t think I’ll ever fall in love. They say that people change, so here’s to hoping that I change. But. Essence is static, so can people really change?