When the fuck will I ever change?

Sometimes, often times, I abhor myself. Has anyone stopped and really listened to their voice and get sick? I hate the way I speak, I hate what I say, I hate how my fake laugh doesn’t sound good enough.

I hate how although, in my opinion I’m fairly pretty I am an unattractive person. Because no one is attracted to someone who hates theirself. At least, no one with respect, and of course that’s what I look for. I want to surround myself with perfect people in hopes that I become one, which, of course, from my track record, is impossible.

I’m an absolute failure. Honestly. I can’t speak right, never say the right things. I can’t hear what the hell you say because I swear to God I’m going deaf. I’m not fit. I’m not witty. I’m sarcastic and loud with a sailor’s mouth and no decorum. I can write, oh, the adjectives, the pretty, flouncy nouns that curl like cigarette smoke, but I’m about as eloquent as the village idiot.

I read books, I digest them and ruminate on them and wish that I lived in one. I hope for terrible things to happen to me to become more interesting. It’s sick. I’m sick. I walk along dark streets and wonder how introspective I’d become if I was mugged or kidnapped or raped. I consider this, wonder what my life would become from that step. Would I magically turn into this amazing person, like it happens in books, dark and brooding but intelligent and attractive and witty and cunning? Because that’s the only way, of course, for me to do anything. To be hurt.

My friends are absolute shit. Sure, there are a few, what, two? three? That I can usually count on.The rest I ruined. I use people. I suck in their features. I let them make me, and when they realize this, they dominate me and I’m subjected to their whims. After being beaten several times, I slowly pull myself away, discard them, and wonder what the hell went wrong.

I have separation anxiety for everything. I can’t get rid of things. I collect. I hate tossing old clothes. It hurts. Really. Because I wonder, what if I ever need this again or that? I hate losing people the most. It eats me up like a poison.

I want to be adored. To be the apex of someone’s universe. I want to be loved. I want to wake up and know that tomorrow will be like yesterday, that everything will be the same and I don’t have to worry about offending someone.

I want that so desperately. I dream about it. I gaze off into the distance. I want to have some sort of story-book romance. I want friends who laugh and invite me out for dinner in a nice resturaunt. I want friends who mirror my eclectic tastes. I want to speak about music or poetry or books with someone, or quote something and have them understand. I want, I want, I want.

But I can never have.

Because I’m fucked up.

But on the other-hand, I hate myself for complaining. Because I want all these people around me, grinning like airheads, when besides me, although few, I have the most amazing people who give two shits on my mortality. I have a lot, a lot more than most, and I scorn it. Forsake it.

I’m resisting the urge to return to the top of this page, reread and sub in better adjectives and nouns to sound far more brilliant. I want to be raw. I want to not doublethink what I feel, how I feel it.

I think that this year was absolute shit. I think its going to continue that way. I’m surprising myself, actually at the moment, unleashing these inner demons I’ve refused to let surface for months. I’ve been fine for a while, but now, no - no, now, suddenly, with such a small spark I’m a sputtering time bomb.

That’s all it takes you know. Such a small, small, almost unbelievable spark to blow up such a high mass. I’m not crying. I’m not depressed. It’s almost as if I’m presenting myself with the truth and nodding, so serenely. This is me. This is the mess I am.

I’m selfish. So goddamn selfish, that I writing this, and posting this, and will feel dejected when no one comes and saves me via repost or whatever the equivalent is on this site of a comment. Because I’m so goddamn self-important.

Because I hate myself.

And I love myself.

Oh I do. I do in the way that I look hopefully into the future, imaging this perfect woman that I will become. Because this, this fucked-up-ness is temporary. It’s like my new lullaby to bed. I’ll change. I’ll change. I’ll change. A mantra I’ve yet to succeed, to heed when I’m giggling shrilly, curses spilling off my tongue in the middle of a train. No, I’m not changing.

I’m standing still.

The other day, a while ago really, I saw a woman walking down the street with her dog. A huge golden retriever type. She was practically glowing like the Madonna, her womb swollen with a child. I remember her because she had this pretty, heart shaped face and these magnetic blue eyes. He wedding ring glinted in the dull light. It was a cold day, and she was quickly trying to make it to her modest apartment before the rain came. However, she managed to stop and smile, say hello (which was lost in the boom of my iPod). I smiled back.

I wonder why she stopped to say hello. Did she tell I was jealous of what she had and I obviously lack?

Stop crying about your fucked up life and try to fix it. Stop crying about how you have no friends when you push them away. Stop crying about how you’re lonely when you make no effort to commune with people. Stop. Fucking stop. And stop blaming me.

“Trying to hold it together, keep my love as light as a feather. Sad eyes baby, it’s been such a long time… Keep my heart breaking in the dark; come and spend the night”
Bat for Lashes

Is it terrible to love your best friend so much that you cry?

I have the best friend in the world. I do not say this lightly. He is my soul mate on all accounts. He lets me rant and cry and complain and be downright annoying without making me feel shitty - instead he throws in a couple comments to make me laugh. I can confide in him - he confides in me. He’s perfect - he smells delicious all the time. He knows all the things I like. He lets me know him, let me pick his brain when I’m bored or just so lonely I don’t know what else to do. He holds me sometimes, holds my hand. Empowers me. Promises me the world and then some. My parents love him. My mother adores him. He’s brilliant and philosophical and such a match for me…

Yet I’m not attracted to him.

Fuck life.

The weather has been consistent this week. Mostly anyway. Warm…occasionally hot. Occasionally some showers. I can really admit that it was gorgeous. But looking out of the window now, after a vicious thunder storm, I don’t think I’ve ever seen such beauty. It looks so lively - as if the tree leaves and the grass sucked in the brilliance of each lightening strike. The green just glows, despite the gray sky overhead. Like a picture with the contrast too high. And let me tell you, there is nothing more beautiful than color. Pure color that is. Not the swirling, LSD fake, pretentiously clattered together to make your mind spin color. No. Real, pure, original, the way it was, is, and always be color. The type of color than no matter how many pictures you take, or how hard you work on an art piece, or how diligently you research the perfect word for a poem, you can never describe. Because its just that beautiful.

I hate that saying, “smile in the face of adversity.”

Why smile? Is it because you are so overconfident that you think you can outsmart disaster? Is it because you’re so hopeless that you haven’t reached a revelation at how dangerous everything is? Is it because you’re so desperate to feel something, anything, that a superficial grin peeks out before tears, before anger, before….

And yet, when you yell at me… I resign to a small quirk of my lips. You catch it easily. I’m mocking you, aren’t I? That’s what you say anyway. And I face the ramifications of an act I don’t even understand fully myself.

Time’s a fickle thing. The past always seems to have passed a lot faster than it did, the future too elusive, the present much too displeasing. Perhaps our perception of time is flawed. Maybe time is not measured in human meter. Regardless, I wish I could have a grasp of time, a ticking clock under my control. By positioning its hands I could go back some hours, fast forward others. Life is such a fail. We all cannot relinquish regrets of the past, try to live for today and yet have to manage to include the future in all equations. Its practically impossible not to make mistakes. “To err is be human,” they say. But if the system is created, has been created I should say, for the us as humans to manage to do the aforementioned tasks (which I deem completely unimaginable), then its practically a set up for failure. So, I propose that we are not imperfect as humans, as I once deduced, but rather perfect with the tools we are given. Perfect imperfections. Contradictions - no, paradoxes, twisted, interlacing circles without end. I do hope that at the end of my life, (although my reason and my belief dictates that when I die I die) that I go on to some paradise and have my countless questions addressed by a higher power instead of vainly spouting my thoughts onto a blog with prayer that someone will woo my conscience with conviction. 

If God invented human in his image, just for this argument, then I guess he’s just as flawed. Which means he’s susceptible to germs and diseases. Which means when the pollen level gets high, wherever God is, he’s sneezing his goddamn ass off. Which is great. I’d like to think that fucker, who made such damn terrible things as pollen, to be annoyed by it as well.

Just another one of the creations I wish God accidentally forgot to put on his “To Do” list that week.

“I will Survive”

Sometimes I wish so terribly that someone would touch me. Run their fingers through my hair, trail them along my spine, pinch at my waist, encircle my hips. I want to be rendered breathless, pinned against a wall so hard my head clacks and my eyes see stars. I want that man, that one with the leather briefcase and the arched brow sitting besides me on the bus, to lean over and blow in my ear. Rub his thumb on the inner of my thigh. Fall into a whirlwind affair. And sometimes I wish so terribly that I could touch someone. Anyone. Male. Female. A body, a beautiful human body. I would watch, through heavily lidded eyes, as it arched sinuously to my hands with desire so painful that it needed me. Because I want to be needed. I want to be wanted. I don’t want love - no, that’s too complicated. I want pure, humane, overwhelming, mind scattering, inhibition destroying-lust.

HIM:I think I worry about you too much
ME: Probably… I’m not worth the amount of time.
HIM: -laughs- Don’t give me that crap

Sometimes I wish that I would stop thinking.

Morning Star

Of thine ethereal stars,
which hallucinations deem true,
o how loftily strung they are,
two tightly woven looms.
And of their darkling depths,
smoldering forges of dignity,
enraptures my soul with petty theft,
rendering me to perplexity.
From the incineration of thine gaze,
a dense and wintry sun,
often I do try to evade
yet my capture is just begun.
As long as I am imprisoned to thee,
never shall I have the ability to see.

Never shall I have the ability to see,
through thine phosphorescent skin,
the taste of which from honeybees,
poisons I from within.
When drunk on vibrant starshine,
and bronze complexion bright,
o how my resolve declines
as I embrace the aberrational light.
And o so becoming, this elegiac dance,
and o so resigned is my soul,
blinded by thine power to entrance,
(with) infatuation’s wicked toll.
And as desire delivers me to tomb,
my love is forever abloom.

My love is forever abloom,
ignorant to my soul’s affliction,
and in thy keep I willingly swoon,
inebriated on thine conviction.
The moon above waxes sweet;
of stars the night devoid,
for the gods vested them in thee,
in your eyes they were deployed.
And as the inherited gift of fatuity
drowns me in thine embrace,
with no disillusion of alacrity,
our lips I interlace.
By thine scalding touch imbue,
I am melded into new.

I am melded into new
as a melody twined in pure meter;
and now I play in beautiful tune,
a bless-ed melody sweeter.
O thine tongue in ascending lilt,
adding harmony to my rhyme.
O the life thou have begild’t,
with thy breathtaking chime.
And through the dynamism of thy murmur,
I draw from chest my certitude.
And as my love grows ever firmer,
you become my beatitude.
Too ambrosial thine love is, my dear
for without thee, mine life is austere.

For without thee, mine life is austere,
a barren sky lacking flame,
by vital daystar cracked and sere,
and nightstar eclipsed in blushing shame.
Soon the bitter of the gloom,
will fade me eidolon-pale
And my heart others may exhume,
and revive to no avail.
And while in thine eyes the vespers dance,
from infinity my arms may reach;
but never will I close the distance
for mine shooting-stars hath ran from me.
And days would pass in this corpselike state,
as resonant reminder of fate.

As resonant reminder of fate
together are we now in each others’ fold,
neither promising such an allusive date,
nor searching for days foretold.
And if the moon shall sink to the sea,
and earth shall shake underneath our feet,
and if time shall crash around me,
never mine love it would defeat.
And when my thine face grows haggard yet,
and old bones crack with a strain,
mine love, pray, never forget,
and all the potency it does contain.
I offer passion forevermore,
and thee to me, I implore.