I Was Wrong. The Clouds Are Moving. Only Slower Than Me.

Sometimes I feel it behind my eyes. Like a pressure. Just reminding me that it's there. An acknowledgement.

But rarely does it bloom into that sad wet thing.

Running hot down my cheeks.

I've never been someone who cries much.

But then again I've never had much to cry about.

Just never had much.

Crying over nothing. The lack. The absence never made sense to me.

There is a feeling. A sadness. But no tears.

I wish. God I wish.

You'd give me something to cry about.

Wanna feel that release.

I rub the blanket across my cheek, trying to ground myself.

I feel your skin instead burning and intrusive. Grating on me.

I feel like I'm floating. I'm off in a dream.

Experiencing horrors I've already seen.

My breathing is heavy. I try not to scream.

I scrub at my skin. It never gets clean.

When worlds collide they do so violently.

Crashing together with a destructive passion.

They set fire to each other and are burnt up in the process.

But what is left in their wake is what we live for.

New witching hour

10 o'clock is the new witching hour. When you've run out of tv and fanfics to distract you from all the free time your wasting every day. When anything productive you could be doing with your time, anything that would mean something to your life, Writing, playing, traveling, trying to get published, Anything that you want to do for yourself is going to take too long and cut into the mandatory time you have to devote to outer society. Be it work or school we have to pay a time fee, an emotional fee, a physical fee, just to exist here.

10 o'clock when all the long hours of your short days are used up and out of reach. When it's responsible to go to sleep. To get those 8 hours so you aren't quite as dead to the world tomorrow as you could be. When the doubts and insecurities come creeping in between the hours of sleep and distraction. You dig for another show, video, book, fic, song, anything to keep you going until you feel like your eyelids are just heavy to fall before your thoughts get the better of you.

When the emotional vulnerability makes you fragile and everything from your voice to your reflection or hell one stray mannerism makes your self-esteem take a dive. Back in the good old days, all we had to worry about sneaking through the shadows in our rooms were monsters. Demons come to take your soul. What do you do when you are the demon. When the shadows are under your eyes. When all the ambition in the world has been pumped into since your ears opened to this world but as soon as you focus enough to see it. All you see is how it's wrong.

We're still kids. Whether your 17 or 30 your still just a kid. Because the definition of adult is emotionally stable. 3 kids, 2 cars, 1 husband and more zeros than you can count. Being an adult means maturity and when they've spent your entire life feeding you pretty lies about your future, how are you not supposed to feel inadequate?

Unwanted suitor

I'd like to say there's a light in your eyes but baby I haven't seen it.

I'd like to blush and bat my eyes but baby I wouldn't mean it.

I could say we talked and fell all night, but that would be bull.

I could say you were mysterious, but I found you're rather dull.

I tried to be nice the first seven times, you really can't take a hint.

So I'll spell it out for you.

G E T B E N T

I spent so much time trying to tell you how much you look like the sky.

I was wrong, the sky looks like you.

The wall

I've dug my fingers in the slated spaces between bones. Clawing and dragging my way up this jagged wall. Knees braced against bleached and broken fragments. Stained red where they've nicked my skin.

Silent is the cursed air. Like the very sound of my voice may break in front of me. Cutting even deeper than the bits of skelton beneath my palms. Than the pale splinters lodged under my nails.

I see nothing above or below, only the wall stretches endless anchoring me in it's ancient death.

I was told I needed to learn to sit with my grief. to hold its hand and mother it. to allow it to exist within me.

But I don't think I can mother anything, not even myself. I sit beside my grief, hand in hand. We're staring at each other. both wondering why we're here.

Your past is no excuse for your future

There's a strength in the palms of my hands.

And I sit in awe of it.

A short lifetime of climbing my way up and through.

Gifted and abused are my fingers.

Peppered with calluses and scars.

And I find I like it, this simple fact about myself.

It could have been true of a lot of people.

But in this moment it is my truth