she was listening to the song as though it had taken over her whole body

You said that I was an enigma. But you didn’t mean it in a good way.

“You’re really childish”

I fucking know, I like myself that way.

“That’s not how we function in society”

I’m doing pretty fucking well asshole.

“No you’re not, you got baptized”

Fuck you asshole. You want to know the truth? I knew what I was doing was stupid and dangerous. I could have said no. But I didn’t want to because I was curious. I just wanted to understand this other world. This other people who believe in a God, who really and truly believe that the bible holds all the answers. 

Why do they believe that? How could they possibly have such strong faith in something they can’t prove?

I didn’t want to be like you - close minded to things you don’t understand, just because you never tried to understand them.

I just wanted to know.

I just wanted to be part of a story.

And you know what, you should be insecure, because you’re not very good.

You think you’re functioning well? Double check how many of those ‘friends’ of yours, actually like you.

I have a secret inner Bitch. 
She likes tearing people down, she likes poking at their insecurities and then ripping them apart. She loves the burn in her stomach she gets from watching someone crumble from her words. 

She loves the heat, the fire, the mutated desire that fills her when she rips someone apart. It’s the rawness, the power of the act. She pictures herself tearing apart a wild animal with her teeth. Eating the meat raw. 

And secretly, I love those feelings too.

You said I was a tease.

I didn’t mean to be, maybe you’re just too presumptuous.

I’m searching for something raw. 
Something jarringly honest. Something base, and cruel, and filled with emotion.

Let me take a sheet of sandpaper to Life, and then lets see what things are really like when they are raw.

 - A little bit bloody, a little bit exposed. Everything is vulnerable, and the stakes are high. And suddenly anyone could do anything  unexpected at any time.

I'm an enigma, but not in a good way.

Like emptiness in harmony I need someone to comfort me

Balance your house of cards. Stack more on top, even though you know the base is shaky. 

please don’t let there be a breeze

please don’t let there be a breeze

please don’t let there be a breeze

Because I have balanced everything, everything about me. And as long as it stands, I still have face. Once there’s that breeze, I’ll be undone, found out. I’ll have lost face. And what’s a girl without her face?

It feels like Simon and Garfunkel, and it rings like white noise.

It tastes salty-sweet.

Hugs at arms length?

It weighs like all the guilt from all the things I haven’t done yet.

I make choices for all the wrong reasons. All the wrong reasons. Is what I want what I want, or is it what I think I want? 

The Id is getting out of hand. Ego, where the fuck are you?

Mostly it’s just because you miss not being missed.

I have a good idea now, of how it will be after I die. I will be remembered and beloved for a time, by some people. But eventually you won’t be missed anymore. 

(Should I worry about the depth or the breadth?)

Fewer and fewer people will visit your grave, fewer and fewer people will be able to recall the sound of your laugh, fewer and fewer people will wonder about the your unfulfilled possibility.

At least you’ll be able to breath easy. You won’t have to worry about your house of cards anymore. They’ll be immortalized as an Ideal. And then they’ll melt away, slip away, like the girl at the party in the light blue dress. Pretty but forgettable.

In the end, all they will remember is a feeling. Your face will blur, and become generic, but still pretty. Did she have blue eyes? Was her chin notable? Your face will be forgotten, but it will embodied a feeling, and you will be mostly good things. 

Don’t judge me. I know it’s simple, I know it’s nothing special, but don’t look down on me for being the sorry me I am. It’s okay if you interact. It’s okay if you laugh. Please, please laugh.

Light me a cigarette and let me run away.

You’re a philosophy major?

.... Maybe I can give philosophy another chance.

I make choices for all the wrong reasons. Maybe will they lead me down the right path.

You believed in the death penalty?

I believe in revenge, but that doesn’t work.

I miss you. I miss that minute.

I miss Huckleberry Finn.

"...all my words come back to me..."

I validate your existence. 

I write your story to validate your existence, just the way you always wanted.

It’s more beautiful that way.

My words are less than parallel with my feet

So it turns out, she was a passing thought. A loud, obnoxious, foghorn of a passing thought. 

Maybe her memory is just so full of other people’s fragments of seashells, bits of colored glass, and dusty marbles lost and found under the bed, that she can’t understand what other people fill their minds with. 

Chariots of Fire.

There’s something about train rides on dreary Sunday mornings.

Maybe it’s the way the air is stale with sighs and the feeling of ‘well, who the fuck cares anyhow’.

Maybe it’s the subtle vomit splattered up the train door, in fermented milk chunks.

Maybe it’s the whirr of the train on the tracks muttering about monotony, reminding you of that sinking feeling in your stomach where you think ‘despite the perceived dynamic of the train shuffling through this industrial countryside, the whirr is really only static’.

It’s not so bad. It’s like the calm after a storm.

Of your own stupidity.

Don’t lie; you loved it.

                                         "She thought it would be fun to try photography

                                          She thought it would be fun to try pornography

                                          She thought it would be fun to try most anything

                                          She was tired of sleeping"

please please please don’t let anyone knock on the door. My heart jumps out of my chest at the prospect of a footstep. 

There’s just a quality in that voice. I always feel bad for the poor boy who carries that quality in his voice when he talks to me. 

She's the last one on the island, give or take. Dreary as fuck.

There she was, waiting for Godot.

My life in an inappropriate compilation of other people’s stories

“I forgot to write the dates in my diary”

It's a senseless collaboration of thoughts and stories and misunderstood feelings. No order, no logic, just a perfect truth that is too confused to be understood, but if only you could make sense of it you might come to understand some sort of centre, some sort of theme, or truth about life. About something.
I'm a senseless collaboration of thoughts and stories and misunderstood feelings.

I have a large pine chest in my mind. It smells good when I open the lid, like emotions and dreams and christmas. I have all your secrets stashed in the left side. 

There’s a soft graveled voice here.

There’s a hole in my stomach, and speeding down the highway with your eyes filled to the brim.

There’s that look you have of the secret thoughts you won’t even share, but that I can see them in your eyes.

“Dear mummy, dear daddy, something’s terribly awry”

The careless voice you used to disguise the earnest weight of the situation, there’s the back room, and that question with a smile, and a hidden dose of fear.

There’s the smothered laugh, and the story that comes with a song. There are letters upon letters. There are days in the playground, there are long talks, and long walks, a little bit of jumping up and down, and a little bit of amazement.

It’s your history, your fearless emotions, and whether or not you like tomatoes that makes up who you are. Whether of not you like cats. 

How loud you laugh,

how fast you run,

do you read the word ‘extraordinary’, as meaning ‘special’, or ‘twice as ordinary’,

who is on your laminated list.

That’s what I do. I collect other people’s stories, and feelings and loves, and I hold onto them, and cherish them, long after the 'other people' have forgotten them.

If you call me

I won't answer

I am sitting under the moon

Inside of a wheel barrow

My desk drawer is filled with sealed, unsent letters. they are a collection of my own thoughts and feelings, and loves and cares. I keep them to myself, safe in a drawer. One day, when you are too old to remember what I meant, I will give you your letters.

Hindsight is 20/20.