Masochist

Someone told me once that I need people to hate me. I don't think that's true. I think instead that I'm afraid of people loving me. I've never felt it. What do you do with love? What do you do with joy? Are you just happy all the time? To me that seems so foreign, so fairy tale impossible. What do you do with the happiness? So I push. Because I know everyone has their breaking point. And I think part of me finds satisfaction in the knowing that I could never be loved, that I am truly unloveable, because no one I push away has ever wanted to come back......but then that's all I want. I crave the person who turns around and says no. The person who takes me up and is stubborn enough to not let me push. That's all I've ever wanted. But I don't think that person exists. Everyone cares too much about themselves to keep at it. And no one could ever care so much about me. Why would they. So I must be a masochist. Knowing what I know yet pushing people away and hurting myself despite the consequences. White knights don't exist. And dragons are worse than monsters because they aren't killable if they're apart of you.

Shit

As i sit and type i am reminded. By the fat congealing around my chin and on top of the abs i work so consistently to not-achieve by stuffing myself with three guilty pieces of unneeded calories in the form of cake; by the song that reverberates around my aching head, pounding harsh memories against my skull; and by the undeserved tears falling against my cheeks as i scream at myself again in the dead of night realizing that not only am i being overdramatic but stupid. Im over thinking something that doesnt even matter. And so i sit and type. And i am reminded.

The British Queen

This isn't mine-- it's a friends. But I wanted a place to put it permanently, to share its worth....


If I die youg
Which I will
Be not sad

You will die young as well

You will join me in my timeless  existence
We will not live, but we will know how
Love was close but death will close
The final chapter on our last bow

The eternal Something
Which could be Nothing
Either a gaping black hole
Or a god of pure white souls
The options are truly bizarre

In Oblivion's wretched grasp
Our memory could soar and sink
Dragging out to the clear we are so desperately near
Screaming out for someone to drink

To drink
To drink
Too much
Too much
To come to us at last
And join us in the blackness
That has become our past
And our voices yell and beg and cry
He hears us in his head
Clambering up to the top to bring it to a stop.
He joins the existence of the dead

In God's clean white and eerie court
His campaign is going strong
Fighting for fear and punishments severe
We step into the throng

I listen intently as he presents his speech
In the hard wooden chairs I abhor
And I feel a sharp pain, and knowing there's nothing to gain
I bleed the mark of a whore

I bleed
I bleed
Too much
Too much
It pours out from my soul
The white chair is stained in sin unrestrained
My skin turns black as coal
He loves me no more,
His mantra does break
I fall from Heaven's tight grip
They all wave goodbye, put my face on some signs
My blood is tuned down to a drip

This life is divine
Not Heaven's confines
We have been built to perplex
I could be God
Or you could be God
Or we could all be Oblivion next

For in this world:

We sin like the best
Cry and scream like the rest
Yet still
We continue
To live

Cherry Pie

There's something beautiful in the nights that linger. Dragging on until the morning, waiting and lilting. They sink and seep and seem to inch into daylight, sifting through the unporous layer of our minds. They stretch out our thoughts and illuminate the darkest holes within our hearts, unveiling the creatures that hide in the daylight and the demons that become burnt and shriveled in the sun. There are many who fear these demons and devils. Turning from temptation and pretending to be holy, they fake smiles and make themselves believe that they are perfect, shunning the most human tendencies inside of them. Sex, desire, greed-- these words are poison on their lips, and slutshaming is, rather than unkind, simply decent and classy. The meanness of those who turn from the dark is considered more proper than the impulse of those who embrace it. But it's nights like that which hold the most tender beauty. That of lust and love, and that which those who sleep till the morning learn to live without. There is beauty in the humanity of it all. It is the sins which give us depth and teach us meaning, and the sins which help to fill out a human being. We are not pieces of art, and our souls should not be pure. We live to survive, and survive to live. So why deny our darkest parts if they hurt no one but ourselves?

thoughts from a cloud

Have you ever seen the sky kiss the ground? it reaches out with its tendrils of pink and orange and blossoms into the sunset, stretching and yearning for just the barest kiss against the surface of the earth. You can see it's final impact in the waters of the globe. Shimmering and refracting off of oceans, lakes and streams, not-quite-seeping into the ponds and puddles and lapping at the feet of lovers and children with laughter; it bubbles up around the edges where, delicately balanced, the sunshine's warmth pops and lands again in the air, bounced back and rejected once again from the lovely earth it longs so consistently for. Every evening, this sunshine yawns, hoping for another brush against the cold, hard ground. And although its stunning array of colors dazzles the spectators down below, the show always ends, leaving nothing more than the echo of a memory upon the pictures of artists and the minds of the many. And every night comes rushing in to cut off the gasping sun and steal the attention of the earth from its great love affair with twilight-- reminding it of the ever approaching dawn.

Pansy

I crave you. Even as the bittersweet thought of leaving claws its way up my aorta, tearing its path from my heart to my head, my blood bleeds only for you. I used to be so inconsistent-- strongly fragile, and irreplaceably alone; A cog in a machine that had broken long ago, with the shattered remains casting a mere shadow upon the purpose it was meant to serve. I was a friendly reminder that perhaps the happy ending does not wrap things up in a neat little bow, a perfect package ready for post, but rather ending in an entangled web of ribbon, discarded and used only for the regifts and the rejects.  But then you came along, and despite the messy exterior and disorganized interior, despite the certain fatality of life, you found beauty in the chaos and straightened my web of futures unforetold. You made me feel lovely and whole, and you shined the tarnished outside of perfectly good silverware that had been left for rust a long time ago. I love you. Even the cloyingly crisp lace of the words feels sappy and sweet in my mouth, and although they stick and seem to glue my teeth shut like molasses, they ooze out of the edges, dripping from my head back into my heart. You’ve breathed life into my veins and made me laugh the way that I gave up laughing so long ago. I love you. Words are thrown around so easily these days. Tossed into the air to be soaked up by the sun, as invisible and light as nitrogen in the atmosphere, and as abundant as well. But these words weigh me down with their burden, begging to be released into your mouth, into your mind. They need to free themselves from the cage my heart has built for them into the home your heart has made for them. I love you. I crave you. I need you. I’m yours.