she introduced herself as a writer, everytime. i introduced myself as my name. she was, probably still is, a writer. i thought maybe i could be too. i thought wrong. i was never going to be a writer.

i was just going to be someone who used too many self related personal pronouns.

#

"sometimes" is my favourite word. sometimes i thought myself big, sometimes i thought myself more. now though, now i'm sure that i'm just another breteastonellischild, too stupid and selfish to say what i'm thinking, too wannabe masochistic to actually ever change anything. too proud of my wasted youth and inelegance.

sometimes i wonder if i came back a little shattered, or if i was always cracked before i went. i know i'm not an easy person, but i wonder when i've gotten a kevlarcoating without noticing. i don't know if i can get it off, and i don't know who else would want to try.

and sometimes i think that all of this is the biggest joke..

on the wounds/one

let's have this out now. my teeth are growing long and my skin's tight. i think i'm spoiling for a fight. this new damage, this new era of maturity, this posturing bullshit we claim as our own. we are nothing special. we are scum, ordinary. we think we dream big, but we dream selfish. there's nothing new coming out of our mouths, just quickfire behind our backs. so let's have this out now, lance the boil, scream and tear ourselves apart beyond repair. the day sits heavy on my stomach, your stupid laughter in my ears. i'm skinning my knuckles in advance. i am a bitch of the best proportions, i am queen of the indignant and the bored. and you, you're prey.

x

been building for weeks. i should have known. i did know, i just didn't want to admit it. i'm the problem, with my overthinking and my irritability. i'm the problem, you're the agitant. go on and tell them, tell them all how nervy i am, how self obsessed. doesn't bother me at all. but give me back that moment. give me that, and i might not ruin everything.

x

sometimes, i find home.
sometimes, i wish i hadn't shared it with people.
sometimes, i wish i'd never shared it with you.

and i'm supposed to feel bad?


-

talk to me about something other than your job, please.

the unpayable debt i owe

the buzz in my head. a clenched train ticket in my fist. the same route home.
nothing has changed.
sometimes there are twinges, cramps, knots of pain in my belly.
sometimes i think i see blood on my sheets.
when i bring them to my face, they're pristine hospital white.
always.
the notion that i've failed without even getting a chance to try doesn't dim

x

you send me a message, like a teenager. i'm too angry, i'm too hurt. you just sat there, last time i saw you. you sat there and let him rip into me like a rabid dog. you sat there until finally i tore myself away. the words that left your mouth were as awful as his.
you promised, you promised you were always going to be on my side.
and today you send me a message, like a teenager. "i don't really know what to say."
i'll tell you what to say.
"sorry."
"i shouldn't have let that go so far."
"i'm so sorry."
"are you ok?"
"how can we fix this?"
in this whole fucking debacle, people have overlooked most conveniently, how hurt i am. i am bleeding, i am bruised, i am limbless. this is physical, because if i think about how upset i am, how sad, how angry, then things will get worse. you've caused enough damage.
they talk about how it effects them. how it pains them, the void between us. i find it hard to care, when my throat still feels ripped raw from the things i was trying not to say.
it would have been easy for me to be as rabid as you two. i'm known for my viciousness. which is why everyone uses me as target practice.
i don't think i can be bothered anymore. i'll call it in, i'll let you see this as a victory.
but i don't think i'll ever let you in on any of my plans again.

x

it hurts too much, thats the general thrust of things. too much to make anything good happen

steeple to steeple

all the words i could have said, the apologies that died thick, poisoned by my spleen. all the truths i should have told, as the world tried to end around us. all the regrets i said i didn't have. the silence that cloaked us, the heat that burnt our nerve endings, our synapses.

all the times it could have been different.



was it my fault? when i tore down the sky, when i condemned God. when i opened my mouth. when i bought into repetition as a literary device of merit. was it my fault?

-

as children we were emperors, lords, ladies, baronesses, paupers, theives, sailors, pirates, military men, mermaids, pilots, librarians, accountants. we had vast possibilites, value, worth, as children.




endless filler. because as an adult, the possibilities and the value and the worth are harder to grasp if the dollar doesn't give you wet dreams.

"sometimes i look at you, and its brilliant, and i can see all the things we're going to do, and how we'll be immortal, stamped on to people's memories, and this huge wave of contentment rushes over me, and its just...just brilliant.

of course, other times you act like such a fuckwit it's hard to see how you managed out your front door alive."