the word was on the street that the fire in your heart is out

I hate to use me. I. myself. You see? I hate to use first person. I hate to use who I am so blatantly, so simply. Because it's too easy to say I, I, I, again and again until there isn't any real meaning, because exposing yourself is never done fully, never done easily, it's a lot of pretend and a lot of empty sentences. So I could go on and on, I could. But I won't.

Instead, meet a girl, an adult by rights. Of legal age most parts round the world. Of age by society's expectation, by the very definition of a number and its associations.

This girl hasn't grown up in hardship, this girl should have it all, by rights. Except in the ways she doesn't -- and of course, those are the ways that matter, that stick to the inside of the skull and pester with an itch that can't be scratched -- even if they are small trifling things, self-imposed. She loves to make excuses, internalizing to hide weakness and failure. It makes it more bearable to imagine the universe is plotting against you, to imagine there is some intrinsic failing that cannot be helped within your mind.

More bearable. Easier.

Escape. 

And perhaps she's always known no matter how much she imagines the universe has slighted her, no matter how she resorts to blaming, creating scapegoats in her mind to present to her gods (always blaming, circumstance, society, people) it's a weak thing that backfires with self-loathing. This girl is smart by rights -- except in all the ways she's not. It's easy to blame, but it's easiest of all to acknowledge reality, the cruel, harsh, bitter facts.

You have failed. You haven't tried hard enough, didn't want to. You are weak. It's all your fault.  You've nothing to blame but yourself.

And she knows, oh how she knows and how it aches. Makes her tear-ducts over leaky. Makes sleep a battle to be won. Makes self-pity and panic the order of the day.

She knows, like the smart-stupid-girl she is, knows no one will pity her the way she pities herself. No one will help her because she does not deserve it. No one will sympathize because she has no one to sympathize for her. Foolish, unmotivated and self-imposed problems do not warrant sympathy besides.

She knows and it terrifies her, makes her restless even as she keeps silent. Makes her inactive and so impossibly unmotivated, pathetic, defeated, listless. Makes her dive feet first into escapism with a sick desperation. Makes her pity herself until she hates herself. And hates and hates and hates.

The fear never leaves and the hope is slowly disappearing. And how silly it was, to hurt this way, at this time, for these reasons. She knows it is weak, knows there are so many truly suffering who stand firm against despair. She knows and it only makes her hate more.

Now her days are wasted, barely moving, her nights spent wide eyed and pointless. She is terrified to leave her house, to step into the world once more, to face her problems head on. The people around her are busy and she has nothing but time. She squanders it all. Sleeping the day, losing track of the passing of nights, losing track of food. She is stuck and she is so aware of it that it makes her feel sick. The vaguest beginning of a topic that even reminds her of what she does not want to think of send her into a heated flush of shame, of heart fluttering panic, of frustration.

She is pathetic. She could change it, she knows, if not the past then an effort to deal with the collateral. She knows it all. And even as she writes this, the sun starting to come out now, she knows she can't. Won't. Let the days continue to fade into each other until her disaster is crashing down around her, unavoidable and destructive.

And when her failure comes to light, when it becomes unavoidable, it is only half of her heart focused on herself, for once, for the only time perhaps. The other half is anticipating the disappointment. The great disappointment she will cause the people she cares for most. The humiliation is a close finish, the humiliation she already feels that will be made glaringly visible, soon.

She is full to the brim, overflowing with hatred. Yet underneath it all is a colder sentiment, less brash and emotive. She is disappointed with herself. Disappointed and unwilling to do a damn thing about it.

and so she said

what could be better?

oh dear me, what could be better than seeing him across the way, and knowing, really knowing that the glint in his eyes wasn't the sunlight reflected at just the right angle? how rewarding was it to know that the strength in his grip was a whispered promise of 'I won't let go' and not simply the primal need to feel?

how wonderful to see pictures in every stroke, every brush of his fingers as they trailed along goosepimpled skin and barely touched; but that's the trick, isn't it? because he is touching you, and he's touching you, ghosting shivers with light butterfly kisses, mere nothings, but with the gravity of every weight you've ever felt.

as constricting as the walls are, you laugh and sputter wildly, climbing up with no footholds, just to reach the ceiling and get to him.

and how absolutely lovely he is when he asks softly, with an elegant-handed gesture, if this was okay. there's no room for fragility or hesitation or the perception that you are breakable now, because there is a heat spreading from your stomach to slither and strangle your neck, reddening your cheeks and ears in a pounding intensity.

though you know it's not nearly warm enough without him.

the distant skies, swirling in muted colors of dark grey and blue, seem to speak to you, as if to say ' it could rain today, but it won't, because there's two' (colors)

two, you had been told, was always the magic number.

his toes uncurl and flex slowly, and how astonishing that he is patient, that he is unhurried, content with nothing more than to speak, always without saying anything, lulling melodies of: you, only you. only you.

pale green twirled with even paler blue, lined in stark contrast with the prettiest variation of charcoal black you've ever seen. irises that don't mesmerize or trick, but always stay still and tell the most endearing stories.

and you kow, you really know that there is nothing but his lazy toes and his rising chest, the amused, quiet tilt of his lips, their color faded like a bruised apple.

you'd always loved apples. and bruises equally, because you'd always been so clumsy (defeatable). he was the same, and he wore his bruises (defeats) openly and proudly, especially if you couldn't hide yours.

though you always got the sense that his bruises weren't always accidents, and the gesture was even more palpable, that you had someone who would intentionally stub his toe and bump his leg and bang his arm, all to protect you, or sometimes, to make you feel better.

becaus he was better, better in a lot of ways, but then again, so were you.

in the long moments of time, in the achingly slow progress forward, how marvelous was it to know that the anticipation you felt was returned? (you could tell by the way his toe flexing becomes erratic). how utterly remarkable was it to see the way the heat radiated off of him, too? vibrant color dusting pale cheeks.

mostly, it was the burning, steady reciprocation in those eyes of his, telling you everything you'd ever needed to hear, some things you didn't want to hear, along with those you did.

so what a perfectly destructive hurricane you found yourself in, standing in the center where the winds didn't touch you and it was calm and quiet, with the energy buzzing powerfully but distantly. his eyes were the only thing, the only thing that you could focus on.

pale green and even paler blue, glinting, sparking, igniting, and still so controlled and sound.

--

and so she said, "Now."

she pulled him into the violent storm and he held on tight as the wind swept them easily away, and she laughed breathlessly.

oh, what could be better?

crazy

Sometimes I think I'm so self-absorbed that I'll never get to be that person. Because lately I just can't stand people. Really, I've never been able to stand them, but I can't stand on my own either. It's this delicate, easily broken balance that makes me hate my innards, more than any sole pimple, bad hair day, or twenty-extra pounds ever could.

I want to be able to fuck the world over, shake the foundations of my bit of earth, and do it with the complete knowledge that I have the stuff to back it up. I want to be that person. I want to be remembered, I want to be indifferent and composed and not care, and stop second guessing. I want to be confident in my silence, I want a smirk and a disposition that can't be shook. I want to waltz, and strut, and swagger with the fumbling grace that is me. I want and I want.

It's a healthy reaction to life though, isn't it? Of course it is. Wanting is pure expression of humanity, and it's weakness and strength all balled into one.

I think what I really want is a grand explosion, so colorful, heated and fiery. I want an exceedingly coarse, unrefined, and ugly explosion. I want the chains to be melted. I want the words to fly with no restraint, no forced cheer. I want the truth, and I want to spit and spew it. I don't know that I would care for the bite I'd get in return. I want the blast to push me farther than I could ever dream of going.

Now it's all I can do, fantasizing, obsessing, over this one, monumental boom. I don't think it'll ever happen. I would get burnt all over my body in the process and my skin would never be the same again. It's logical to want to avoid such a blast, and yet, I can't stop visioning the utter destructive force of what it could be. The utter loveliness.

I get tired much too easily, and for all my bravado, I’m pathetically sensitive and not immune to the exhaustion. I'm tired of social contracts between people who are more than strangers, even though I understand it perfectly, this balance of someone to rule and someone to serve. This whole life is a hierarchy (not that it's any revelation) and everyone and everything has its place. And for feeling like a lowly servant at times, the one thing I don't want is pity or cheap words of encouragement -- not they can't be appreciated or even yearned after. Only I need to earn all my sparkling confidence, me, myself, I. No one else can do that for me, and it can’t be instilled artificially.

It all comes back, as things always do, to breaking the zigzags and letting them disappear, letting all the small worries and even the big ones be swallowed in howling laughter.

So I end this here, with my bitter, resentful attitude, with those vague touches of that disgusting sense of optimism. I know what I can‘t stand, and what I can‘t face, but contempt for everything around me is by far the easiest way, the most cowardly way, to live. Nothing’s fair, and everything’s relative, but that's okay. It has to be in order to be able to function.

I spend a disproportionate amount of time trying not to sound pathetic or needy, but all arguments are for nothing. All I’m trying to do is cover all the cracks, so no one can get in on my defenses. Humbling or annoying? Shameful comes to mind. Though there are small slivers, small voices in my crazy little head that tell me to harness my excess pride (the result of shame, didn‘t you know), ride the waves as they come, and have some damn lady balls.

One day, for sure, I will get my piece of land, no matter how small, and I will fucking own it.

So until then, I'll keep yearning for that uplifting explosion. Boom, bang, bam.

Just like that.

Up and away

sometimes I wish I could fly away. you know, that dreamed about dream everyone seems to dream.

and it's obvious why everyone dreams of taking flight. it's more than appealing, it's fantastical. it's a relief. because even if you get away and things turn out horribly wrong -- you still flew away. that's it, of course, it's the ability to leave the ground underneath your feet and watch it disappear the higher you go.

drugs endeavour to emulate the same effect, though it can't last, and the return to earth seems more jarring each time.

my indulgence lies in what isn't touchable, what I get to play with in my mind, what I have almost complete control over. the fantasy, the imagination, and the pure freedom of all that isn't quite real.

so then that leaves me wishing I could join my secret world full of goodness. just wishing I could slip out of this life, just for a little while. a refuge. a relief.

always always, I want to fly up and away. sad thing is, it's harder than it sounds.