More and more

your demeanor looks like quicksand.


-

I thought about it today. And I figure that when you tell me you want to know me, you are telling me you want to know if you love me or not. Because once you know someone, fully, don't you also know if you love them or not? Isn't it the same thing? I dunno. I feel conceited saying that, somehow..

I hate that feeling I get in my gut whenever SHE comes up. That stupid GIRL that you fell in love with. It kills me to know that you loved someone that is not me. Even though it's out of my hands. All of it. And when I asked if you wish you could change things so you could still be with her, you avoided the question. And it killed me.
And when you told me the story of how she let you go, it killed me. And I just feel so dead thinking about it. HER. Why HER? She's nothing special. She's nothing compared to you. Not that I AM, just, somehow, you're blinded. And I'm okay with that.
I think.
Yeah. I am a human. I am selfish. Therefore, I am okay with that.

I am so much more comfortable convincing myself that you didn't REALLY love her. But I know you did. Maybe you still do. Maybe you always will. And it kills me.

Just another band-aid.

My throat hurts
I seem to have developed some kind of by-product of the plague
And I am going to attempt to boycott kissing you
It will be exceedingly difficult.

I will fail.
In about thirty seconds.

Dammit.

I just know I will.

Anyway. I legitimately fell asleep in your arms this evening. And you were out cold as well. And it made me happy. Like if I can fall asleep, without pretending, then this must mean something. It really must.

I think way too much.

I had a lot of insightful things to place here, this evening.
But they fell out of the back of my mind and I am scared that you're only saying you're sick because you don't want to have to spend time with me.
Paranoia is total awareness.
or something,

whatever.

I'm losing my voice. "It's your lips fault," you told me. "If you get sick, I'm still not going to forgive myself," you told me. Blah. I don't know. But I DO know how you hate insincerity, and yet for some reason I have a really, really hard time trusting you. There has to be something you're using me for, because there's absolutely no way you can honestly care for me in the same way I care for you.

And it's highly likely that I am feeling something more peculiar, complicated, what have you, than teenage lust, and it's likely that I'm terrified of even thinking about spending my life without you in it. I could settle for just seeing you every now and then. I guess. But the more I get to know you, the more panicky I am about YOU getting to know ME.

My guard is always up. But I feel like it's kind of slipping. I can't trust you. I don't. I will not. Not for a long, long time. I'm so scared you'll realize what a douche I am....

I hate being lonely because you didn't feel up to spending time together tonight. I wish I could just deal with my insecurities instead of convincing myself that every tiny thing should be analyzed again and again. And again.
If only.

I think, though, that maybe your eyes are broken. And your ears. That every stupid, shitty thing I say is magically translated into something clever, caring, or impressive. That even the smallest physical flaw is decoded into a reflection of how I'd like to look. Maybe you're blind to my scars. Maybe your hands are broken. Maybe when you touch my wrist, you don't feel a pulse lagging. A heart half-beating from misuse. You don't feel my imperfections or my mistakes, maybe every coarse piece of me is somehow rendered smooth at your touch.

Or maybe.. maybe I spend too much time thinking about this.

I'M only all I SEE sometimes

wouldn't it be nice if I could read your mind?

My hands are so cold



Sometimes I feel like you're some kind of giving tree. Like the Shel Silverstein book. Like I'm the selfish little child who keeps taking things, vital things, from you. It is a depressing thought.

I am sleep-deprived. Shut up.

A romantic subplot is developing for Miss Apathy. Not that anyone who reads this knows who she is, but whatever.

A moment of clarity.

Or not.

I'm terrified of things being out of control as far as our situation goes. I am exhausted and I miss you so much and I wish I could have spent time with you this evening or afternoon or ANYthing. And I hate not feeling wanted or like I am a priority, and I complain too much and I use the word I too much and I am really mean to people I care about. I should stop.

I guess it goes without saying that the title is off track.

This is

A poem about absolutely nothing beneficial to anyone.

Curled up
with your nose pressed against mine
I wait
for you to think I am asleep
so you will kiss my cheek
and smile at me
and try hard not to wake me
while I "slumber"

--

I am finding more and more every day that six billion, well, that's a lot of people. And I'm also starting to realize how much easier it would be, to become an accountant, or something, than to become a writer. An artist. A poet. A what-have-you. So many people share my dream. I am afraid that this just wont work out the way I've always planned.

I'd like to speak (well, type) a bit more about things like this that are on my mind, but sleep is tugging on my sleeve (which is something I am not used to), and I'm going to partake. I suppose. I don't know.

I'm just so scared, because I am the happiest I have ever been.
What if I lose you?

It has been one month

today
February the third (right now, it's technically the fourth, but whatever)
since my life began