What You Should Have Said

I'm beginning to realize that all the songs I love hold the words and sentiments you would have expressed had you been the person I thought you were. The person you should have been. The person you owed it to me to be.

I put every little bit of me into loving you.

For you to turn around and not deserve is seriously fucked up.

The Reasons

I'm thinking up all the ways to delicately tell you, sorry, but I'm holding out for someone who doesn't suck quite as much as you. I've got a list of reasons to leave a mile long for leaving. And then, there in the back of my head, a voice whispers "A mile? Is a mile worth enough to break a heart? Surely, you should wait until it's two miles." And then another "Would you really be breaking it? Clearly it cannot care for you so much as to break...look at the way it treats you." And then another "You know it doesn't matter anyway."

And there it is. The truth. It doesn't matter anyway. And the possibility that this could hurt you, well...that's a possibility I'd like to avoid. So if it doesn't matter....

Stay. And so I will.

Last Night

The reason art often resonates with a person is that it expresses a feeling better than most could do all on their own. When someone we consider to be sublime does this it give the work real meaning. But consider for a moment if someone who felt nothing, who expressed nothing, created exquisite beauty before your eyes, better than you could yourself. Add to that your only desire in life being to create something beautiful and memorable to just one single person. The moment you realized that your best would always be lesser than their mere idle amusement...Well that moment would crush you.

It crushed me last night.

Packing.

We're taking that step together, and merging our habitats into one. It's a new city for me, and I wonder, will I find places to hide all my secrets? These sidewalks know where my steps lead. These sheets know what I transgress. These walls hold me. What about the new ones? Will they be as kind?

Every piece of me has been boxed and labeled. Tell me, what happens if you open the boxes and don't like what you find?

I am no dream come true. I am no beautiful discovery. I'm just fucked up and searching, waiting to hear the right words. You've come so close...just a beat or two off. And how could I not love you with your laugh that builds low in you, and explodes out of you with force enough to make everyone else smile? And those sex-demanding eyes that go from blue to green and back again, I'm at your mercy. Everything about you promises to be kind to me.

So yes, of course, everything is packed. What choice do I have?

Used to...

I used to write all the time. Writing was the only thing I could do to feel my soul, and know I wasn't entirely useless. Words freed me, allowing me to live a life outside of the one I was not currently enjoying. But then I started to enjoy life. I used words to express love and devotion, rather than to escape. I meant them so strongly, felt them with my whole self. A funny thing happened then, when happiness left me. Words left me too. My favorite friend whom I could always turn to, the one place I felt at home, the only comfort in my dark, dark world, left me. I couldn't mean anything the same way. I couldn't find the right way to say anything anymore. A tiny part of me, and my favorite piece at that, had died. And now everything comes out sounding like sharp shards of glass, disconnected and jutting out in objectionable shapes. Finding the absolute right word that a given sentence hinged upon used to be my special skill, now I am left tongue tied and ill expressed.

And sad.

But I have to say good-bye. Things have changed and being a wordsmith, crafting sentences into compelling paragraphs, my love affair with words, well, we are no longer one in the same. There was a divorce. A separation. Now moving on is the only way to be happy.

Why does it feel as though I am cutting my heart out?

I should change my name...my face...every identifying characteristic so that I can be this new person who cannot call themself "writer." Truly, I, or the I, I used to be am lost without this.

Sometimes I Write Poems...

the point of completeness

drink to the point of panting
listen to the point of loving
kiss to the point of fucking

eat to the point of hurting
love to the point of knowing
fuck to the point of sleeping

let me
fill you up