Wednesday, June 16, 2010
Saturday, June 12, 2010
Saturday, May 29, 2010
When the same thing happens over and over again, sometimes people get dragged into it that do not deserve what I do to them. I know you did not mean for anything like this to happen, but it did, and it was the worst time it could have happened being that it happened right before. And a wounded heart is the hardest thing to mend. And when the stitches keep getting ripped open, things remain the same.
I do the same thing to everyone I like, or I find attractive or interesting. I tease and taunt and make fun of and pick on. If you can get through that, and you still like me; you’re a keeper. It is hard to be around someone who hurt you, I do not tell them how I feel, or cry, or act like a pussy. I get angry and I bottle up everything inside with anger and resentment and I get very bitter and I drop bombs to let them know how I feel and I really did not know I was making you feel that shitty, because normally they do not. They do not even get my hints. You are smarter and I should have known that. It almost hurts more that I hurt you being that your are a genuinely good person. I am nothing what people think I am. I think I am often a disappointment for them. I attract the people who like dating the asshole, because they think that is what I am going to be. I wish I could have 1/4 of the ego of even a normal person. Almost everyone I have ever dated has said the same thing to me “You deserve better than me” and then went on and on about how great I am. Are great people not wanted? Everyone truly wants the asshole. Maybe all hope is really gone… Hah…
I hate that some certain people’s happiness makes me literally sick to my stomach. All I have done for the past 3 days is drink. Last night I could not even stay there, I had to go, even though that conversation ended rather well, and everything got cleared up, everything is a disappointment for me, good or bad. Part of me thinks that I might go back to New York, but I cannot start over again. I have thought about moving a lot and disappearing and starting over… again, I do not want to do that again though but I have to do something insane very soon.
…Or I truly have nothing, nothing but disappointments…
Thursday, May 13, 2010
There’s a knot in my stomach and a fist in my throat. My lips can move, so does my tongue. But I can’t make a single sound. Yet I got things to tell you, so I guess I’m just gonna write my words down, not like you will care to read and not like I’d give a damn rat’s ass whether you do or not. I just need to get things out my chest, but this fist has blocked all the way from my mouth down to my throat. I’m afraid it is going to get deeper. Maybe it’s aiming to destroy my lungs, so that I can’t breathe and die. Or maybe it’s aiming deeper; to go down to stomach and hell, who knows, maybe it is going to untie the knot and set me free so I can talk these all to your face. But no.It doesn’t seem to go anywhere. It’s like my throat is it’s new home. I hope it won’t throw a housewarming party, and invite my other fist down to my throat.
“You’ve got lips like sail boats” you’d say. I’ve never known if that was good or bad. But I only hoped and thought it was good each time I felt yours on mine. You’d kiss them till they bleed. And I’ve always wondered if it was the chapstick or the lust that made you lick my lips like a 5 year old fat kid would lick the last drop of ice cream of off the spoon.
I’m a little off the wall. They say I can see just fine, but sometimes I think I could bare to see a little less of the world. My lips are like my heart; they’re too heavy to work right and they hold all the wrong things in. My theory: one day they’ll both explode. I’m the pieces of a ninety-nine cent puzzle; I don’t quite fit together like a person should. Well, that is until you get a hammer and fix me.
In my throat, I find another consciousness; things that I didn’t mean to say. Maybe that’s why it’s blocked today… Maybe my thoughts are grounded and they are not allowed to get out of this whore mouth and must be stuck in their room, in my mind, made of bloody brain cells. So now it’s a must to write all these thoughts that don’t make sense when put in together, but they make perfect sense when I think of them individually. It’s not like I’m a poet. I would hate to be one. I want to punch everyone who calls me a poet right in the nose so they would bleed and I would enjoy the scene.
Anyway.
Now call the paramedics and tell them to pump my stomach, for old times’ sake.
