You can have my isolation.
You can have the hate that it brings.
You can have my absence of faith.
You can have my everything.
You can have the hate that it brings.
You can have my absence of faith.
You can have my everything.
Sunday, November 27, 2011
Sunday, November 20, 2011
Unfinished Sentences
Feelings. Emotions. Too much in head.
Uneasiness. Queasiness. Simple boredom? Maybe. I think not.
Same old routine. Meet a new person. Get too attached. World does NOT revolve around ANY single person. Reminders to no effect. The heart wants what the heart wants. The mind thinks what the mind thinks. Obsession. Infatuation. Every action. Commanded by him. Always, at the back of my mind.
Shiny new object of affection. Unexplored, untouched. Boundless possibilities.
Time. Boredom. Nonchalance. Indifference. Too much effort for sustenance. Who gives a shit anymore? Unrequited love. Sour grapes. Commitment issues. Phobia. Of the future. Of the present. Of the fucking past.
Tapped personalities. Untapped personalities. Remaining untapped because I couldn’t care less. Fading away.
Pain. Hurt. Anguish. Don’t want this. Can’t help it. Wish I could.
Boredom.
Void. Filling? Substances. Contraband. Can’t get out. Of my head. Of this place. Stuck inside, knocking against the edges. Hurting. Need to take mind off. Sufficient distraction. Seemingly impossible. Contraband. Contraband. Revert to contraband. Houston, we have a problem.
Emergency. Trouble. Parents. Fuck it. High. Happy. Sway. Live. Peace.
Contented. After all this time.
Finally.
Thursday, November 10, 2011
The Telltale Heart
She used to wear her heart on her sleeve. It was open, it was free.
It was vulnerable.
It was prone to damage from inclement emotional weather. From without, from within. So it got hurt. It got hurt repeatedly. It was stabbed again and again, over a period of years, brutally almost. Like a bad murder movie scene. By the end of all that time, the heart had nothing but knife wounds all over. Every time it was stabbed, it had spurted thick, dark, red blood. So much of its blood was gone now.
It had retreated. It was scared now. It was a basic instinct to step back and distance oneself when one got hurt repeatedly. And so the heart had retreated into her chest. And it had become blacker, drier, more shriveled. Almost as if it were descending into old age. It had lost its youth, its vitality. She was only twenty five. It had closed up whatever was left of its soft, mushy insides, within a hard outer wall. It was more cynical now, harder. And wary. Wary of more hurt. And it would not let itself get hurt any more.
She wondered if it would open up again.
P.S. Extra points to those who understand the connection of the title with popular culture.
It was vulnerable.
It was prone to damage from inclement emotional weather. From without, from within. So it got hurt. It got hurt repeatedly. It was stabbed again and again, over a period of years, brutally almost. Like a bad murder movie scene. By the end of all that time, the heart had nothing but knife wounds all over. Every time it was stabbed, it had spurted thick, dark, red blood. So much of its blood was gone now.
It had retreated. It was scared now. It was a basic instinct to step back and distance oneself when one got hurt repeatedly. And so the heart had retreated into her chest. And it had become blacker, drier, more shriveled. Almost as if it were descending into old age. It had lost its youth, its vitality. She was only twenty five. It had closed up whatever was left of its soft, mushy insides, within a hard outer wall. It was more cynical now, harder. And wary. Wary of more hurt. And it would not let itself get hurt any more.
She wondered if it would open up again.
P.S. Extra points to those who understand the connection of the title with popular culture.
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