Hello unloving.... I will love you.

I don't even have the emotional capacity to write. How pathetic is that?

And I can't believe myself. I can't believe what I've done. What I am still grieving. Because I am always trying to be the healer that I am not. I am not a woman who can just take men, and rip them open, and heal their souls. I cannot, and yet, that gift is so precious that all I want is to embody it. And so I try, and try again. And I fail each and every time, and tear myself apart in the process. I tried to sew back the three of you - the triumverate of destruction. And I failed miserably every time, and more and more of the beauty of innocence and light is being destroyed and mutilated every time I try.

And even now, all I want to do is save you.

... They tell me everything will be okay, as long as my hands keep moving. But my hands have fallen to my sides, and they are still as lead.

.... There is no lead on this island to fix the hydrogen bomb. And the explosion will not be beautiful, and the world will be destroyed because of what I have done. At least it was my fault. I wish that was comforting.

Nothing makes sense. My unreality has failed me yet again, and all I want to do is crawl in bed with you.

Hello unloving, I will love you.

I wait.

The world waits with breath that is bated.
Just waiting to see if the promise will hold.
If this will last. If hope will turn into more –
Into reality.

Maybe I’m not supposed to say it, but…
I want this to last.
I want you to be mine.
I want you to call me yours.
Just… let this be real.

always ready to fly.

"It has been my experience," she whispered, "that happiness never comes without another's anguish. And maybe I'm selfish.."

His eyes beg her not to finish that sentence.

"But I'd rather be happy than protect anyone else."

And that was that. And that was betrayal. Somewhere he knew he could not ask her to be any more than she was. This was her, whimsical and indecisive. Hummingbird's hearts beat 1260 beats a minute. Their bones, lightweight and hollow. Her wings were always much too ready to take the beats it needed to fly away.

He knows he wouldn't love her without those fragile, hollow bones, and those wings always flying out before her.

But he wished she'd be a little more selfless.

"Are you sorry?" His voice is weak.
"No." Hers is strong. "But that, I am sorry for."

Things I shouldn't post:(I don't want you the same way I used to.)

My secret?
... I'm not yours anymore.

hungry hands.

We always turn back to the ones who hurt us, because at least then we’re sure that they can make us feel something. We always crawl back into the arms of the lover that destroyed us, so that we can just feel wanted once more in the aching and sweating and hungry hands of that monster you grew to love. In that acute moment right before orgasm, you realize where you are and who he is. And why it’s so fucking blissful to be there, with him. Because even if he hurt you, even if he burnt you beyond all recognition: even if now, you’re nothing more than a pile of ashes, at one point… you were everything. You were infinite.

And then the anger sets in. The bitterness, that edge in your voice. That scream in your mind that comes out as barely a whisper, as your fear sets in. As your blatant anger at being taken advantage of, of being used, of being hurt, sets in all over again. And that sleeping dragon in your stomach unfurls, and you realize you should run away, and never be with him again.

And then, you crawl back to his arms, for one more moment of satisfaction. For one more moment of being infinite.
And so, it continues.

Until one day, he'll realize that this is more than just fucking. More than just pain.
And when you go to crawl away, licking your wounds, one more time...
he'll hold you tighter. and you'll look at him, eyes wide, and you'll see,
"Stay."

hermit in the city.

Some days, alone is better than anything else.
Free from you, free from them, free from society.
As much as you can ever be, at least.

We haven't even found a way to live for ourselves.
And so we beg, and borrow, and steal into each other.
Just for some hopeful breath to continue us.

Some days, I pray for nothing more than alone on my bed,
letting my thoughts become more than just scattered ideas
of jobs, of school, of love, of sex, of money, of what I need to do.
and then my unreality fails me, and I crawl into bed with you.

I miss torturing myself to feel something.
I miss living away from any others; a hermit in the middle of the city.
my eyes are wide open, trying to find a fixed point
so the world will maybe stop spinning.

And beyond all else, I resent you for turning me into this.
I can blame you for everything, because you became my core.
and even as I tell you a hundred times I love you,
the resentment is burning, and we have burnt away.
and so I flee.

straddling the atlantic and pacific.

and we're standing with our palms to the sky, praying that God will bring rain. Praying that reality will bring some relief.

And I'm sitting here, much too late for me to be real, and ranting and raving and pretending to be philosophical.
What shit.

Standing on the edge of infinity, on the very border to the reality that could be eternity.
and I'm turning away from it. Turning into it. Transforming from simply disjointed limbs and unseeing ears, folding into broken shards and full length mirrors.
Because everywhere I look, there is still you. There are still eyes watching, and floating dots, and scrambling seagulls.

And the serpent of the garden, and the siren of the ocean are both hungering for me, calling for me.
begging me into their destruction.
and the eyes are still watching.

And the serpent is promising me so much, and the siren call is so sweet and terrifying.

And so now I stand, on the crossroads of infinity and eternity. And even now, I feel the need to be struck down by lighting, to be torn into two so I can step out of my own body. and into the incandescence of heaven.

and so I don't sleep, because I fear the dream I had what seems so many eons ago. And I don't sleep, because I fear what might happen while I'm asleep.

and you will read this, and read it too literally.
and you will run from me.

And I don't sleep, because I can still see the way it will all turn out.
and I still cannot break free from any of it
from all of it.
Because my hair is now red, and my blood is now muddied with the mud from the sewers. and my eyes are full of blood, and my lips are full of love.

And even now? All I want to do is save you.

optimism is mania for insisting that everything is all right when everything is going wrong.

And so, it's another year. And we're all doing the same goddamn thing. Fighting and crying and dying. Fucking and trying and lying and all that other shit we do to try and keep ourselves sane. And it's the same shit, over and over again. We're 16, 17, 18, hell even you "adults" over 20. and we're all just doing the same thing. Fighting to get the fuck out of here, get someone. We're all running and trying and burning out our headlights, simply trying to get somewhere. Somewhere that isn't here.

And we're sitting in our little coffehouses, sipping our coffee and smoking our cigarettes, acting like we're so much older than we are. Like we know so much more than we do. And we're talking marriage and soulmates. And we're all so goddamn sure that we've found the one, because we're all so scared to be alone. Scared that if this isn't the one, there never will be one. And so we burrow down with the first one that comes, and we're determined that this is it.

But let me tell you: There will be many lovers, many 'soulmates'. And they will destroy you. They'll leave you for someone else, they'll not want you anymore. Something will happen, and your heart will be broken. Trust me, it'll happen.

And we'll all sit there and beg that it's different, that they won't leave. We'll sit there and hold onto them, forever and ever. We'll promise ourselves that we'll keep fighting for them, that we'll never let them go.

When in reality, all we should be searching for is someone to live for.
Because dying for someone is easy.
Destroying yourself for someone is easy.
Telling yourself you're worthless, that no one will ever want you like that... that that person was it, that they'll never be another like them... that shit's all very easy. Destruction of self is easy. You are, after all, your own worst enemy.

What's harder, is living for someone.
Telling yourself it'll be better, that you'll find someone new is goddamn fucking hard. Getting over someone that you sincerely loved with all your heart, your soul, your very essence is so fucking hard.
But if you don't, you'll never know what it's like to love.
You'll never know what it's like to live for someone.

Because even after all the shit that I've been through, I am still so sure that the world is full of love. That there is enough love in this world to live for.

And so you'll continue to sit, and beg any God you know for the One. And you'll bemoan every significant other that leaves you, and promise there'll never be another. The good thing about the most of you, is that you're fickle beings, who will fall in love within a month. But for the rest of you...

If you don't live for the ones that you could love, what will become of you? You all know. You'll drown in your own self pity, and fuck the girls that want you, and watch them walk away, licking their wounds, as you dream of your past. And every one of them that you could have loved, that could have been the one, will slowly walk away from you.
And you'll continue to die, for no reason other than selfishness.

And so we will sit here, and smoke our cigarettes, and do our drugs. Drink our sorrows away, fuck the pain away, and live to die because we're all just dying to live. But I pray to God that one of these days, one of you will just get the inkling of courage to actually live for someone.
Because yes, you can burn your headlights out all you want. Just make sure that those busted headlights don't make it impossible for the car to drive.

Because one of these days, you'll find someone that you can live for. And all you can do is cling to them for as long as you have them, and pray they're doing the same for you. Because in the end, we're all alone, and all we have left is the memories of who we were and who we shared our living moments with. And goddamn, that's the only thing that really matters.

As for me?
Well, shit.
I'm ready to live for someone.