Twice in a night. Too many, too much. Except not enough, time and words and…
My brain is itchy, my secrets are buried deep and sore. Five words can suffice for even the deepest truths, but I wander through so many, fill pages with ink flowing from my veins. Digging for metaphysical splinters through the wet meat of organic tissue, looking for the divine in gore.
Years ago I’d court nights like this, seduce them in the starlight, and write poems when they came to me. I don’t even remember the last time I tried, I’ve lost that curious sense of structure, rhythm, cadence. But prose is poignant too, and a better vehicle for my more egregious lies.
Fuck you, and fuck the life I thought I wanted. Fuck the lies I told myself to steal a moment’s peace in your arms, because I paid too much, your hands were cold, and I want my fucking money back.
I want back the moments in the forest I thought I was sharing with someone else, I want back all the secrets and stories I told the person behind your eyes, because I never dared to look, and it was just some impostor all along.
It’s been years, years and years of nothing, and that’s not your fault, none of it was your fault, it was mine, because I’m just so sick of nothing, so sick of waiting to fall in love and with you, at least one of us would believe that that is what love is really like.
I changed, I changed because I thought it would matter, I thought if I did something else might, I thought it was my fault.
This isn’t what I meant to write, but just because I didn’t mean to doesn’t mean I don’t mean it anyway. I used to write like I was this other person, but it was a lie, and it’s so much harder to do this, to be me without creative license, to be me when my thoughts feel ugly and I know my problems aren’t poetic or tragic or interesting. When they’re just mine, and that’s not enough for everyone else, but it’s enough for me, and I need this anyway.
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