|
design | host i have a crush on Greg the wiggle. He can do that hot potatoe dance for me any day. my shoulders are exhausted from rocking back and forth from the tears you caused me last summer. Mosquitos hummed a funeral march for whatever it was you killed inside me. fall bitterness lingers with its acrid taste in the back of my throat. Crunched brown leaves like a skeleton linger in my memory with the painted children trick or treating as the air turned cold when you didn't apologize for what you couldn't know you did. frigid winter frost bit my toes and the aching snow surrounded me with white all around. white snow and white noise filled my head and your whole face was your eyes looking at me like i was a bug under a microscope. interesting for a while and then disgarded like all of your imperfections until you're perfect and above me. spring came and the hope of warmth taunted me while the leaves turned green but my heart turned to rust. sweet soft words like equivocating knives pierce the muscle and the intoxicating eurythmia begins while i'm coughing up blood but smiling because i believe what you say. i blush as the blood runs to my face and i'm swallowing every word you vomit up to me. it's summer again now and slowly i feel it begin again. i want to believe you care about me but i want even more for you to end what you started and leave me be if you can't give me what i need. summer heat fills your eyes and my fingertips as i long to touch your cheekbones. i'm still so sore from sobbing from last summer but time marches on and the cycle begins again because you hurting me is constant like the spring and winter. yeah... i randomly wrote that a few days ago. i like typing what i feel. i like when i'm able to. i like sitting on the porch with my guitar but i hate the mosquitos. i hate that my window's broken so my room doesn't get enough air conditioning and i wake up at three in the morning feeling like the room is on fire. i hate empty spaces where furniture used to be. i hate the impending threat of an awkward visit to a doctor. i love how the sky turns blue and pink like cotton candy. i hate how none of this makes any sense. i smell like mushed up crackers and cereal and yogurt and formula and drool and diapers. i smell like a baby. i was outbid on a vintage airline guitar yesterday with 25 seconds to go by two dollars. i don't think David really planned to find us a ride to the warped tour. there's fuzz behind my eyes and they hurt from crying. i'm a wreck, and what's sad is that i'm doing better than recently. i have a strange desire to watch the wiggles. Greg is my favorite. that australian accent kills me. oh yeah. i have to go put on a smile and pretend i want to be somewhere. maybe i'll sneak off to the car and play my guitar. i feel empty. Robert Smith says it better than i could: i can't take it anymore this it i've become this is it like i get when my life's going numb i just keep moving my mouth i just keep moving my feet i say i'm loving you to death like i'm losing my breath and all the smiles that i wear and all the games that i play and all the drinks that i mix and i drink until i'm sick and all the faces that i make and all the shapes that i throw and all the people i meet and all the words that i know makes me sick to the heart oh i feel so tired...
and the way the rain comes down hard that's how i feel inside... i have to go.
|