I Really Want to Curse Right Now

I love your earthen smile and the sadness quilted in it. The way the ocean stands startled at the blue flecks in your irises…

 

 

 

…

 

 

I want to peel my skin off with how pathetic this is.

(That was supposed to be an example of some of the cliché writing I create on a daily basis.)

I am not good, I am not anyone, and my poetry means nothing only because absolutely nothing drives it.

Nothing has really ever driven me besides fear. And now that I am not scared of anything, anyone, even, I don’t know what to do with myself.

There are fragments of my fallout that keep catching on people I’ve connected with.

My pieces. Me, rubbing off. I have lost myself; everyone keeps pulling me apart.

(And I let it happen.)

I’ve never cared less about what happens around me than I do now, and the thought used to scare me. I think I have been caring so much, for so long, that, I finally busted. My insides aren’t feeling inside of me these days. My face is one that is photo-shopped, incorrect, incomplete.

I am not sorry about hurting people, or maybe it is that I have become so sorry that I do not understand the emotion anymore. (Sorry doesn’t mean much and it’s because I overuse it.)

For the most part, I want to do better.

Not because of any other reason I’ve ever had before, mostly because I’m running out of time.

(Time for what? )

I’ve got no clue. I can just feel all of my life slipping away before I’ve even gotten a chance to begin it. I want to scream. This font isn’t big enough. The words don’t mean anything. Life tends to be irrevocably terrible, at times.

I start counseling tomorrow. I feel like a story book character. I don’t want to talk to anybody. I want to be better. I just don’t want to be normal.

…

Hey, me again. I’m doing a little better than when I started this blog. I still want to scream, pretty much always.

Big things sometimes happen without me realizing it. I am just now in my life beginning to understand how much I’ve looked over in my past. I have a lot of feelings in me, always, and I have trouble expressing how much I care and don’t care and feel and just cannot feel sometimes.

I think this me is for the best. Being strange is like sitting in the part of a pillowcase that only holds air. While the rest seems tucked away tightly, I am feeling a little spacious, floating around above everything else, cotton clear. I keep seeing things.

(That metaphor was stupid, but I am not going to change it.)

There is going to be a lot for us right now, and there is going to be a lot for us tomorrow. We just have to wait it out.