how we just kind of float on

every five minutes, all of me stands still and waits for the inevitable: falling into quicksand and coming back as someone else. every day i'm a different person due to the additions of experiences to my life. one breath can change me drastically; one step forward and i might fall over. and the consequences? permanent damage to the face, develop an ugly fear of mirrors. and so i think about the concept of the future a lot. the invisible doors of experience that we are bound to walk through. thinking about the future is a funny thing. it's like sitting on a swing, swinging forward for a second, but coming back quickly to realize that you're still here.

sometimes at supper i'm honestly not there. i mean, i'm sitting there, but i'm really where my thoughts are. i guess they call that being there physically but not there emotionally or mentally or whatever. but that's kind of wonderful isn't it? because where are we then, when our minds are somewhere else?

i've been thinking about these people who are very typical but i can't help but wish they thought i was interesting and gave two shits about my life. looking at pictures of them and their lives sort of feels like my hair being pulled when i already have a headache. but see, if i don't look at these pictures, it feels like having a headache and waiting, expecting, even longing for the hair pull, but it never happens. i think about how their mothers will buy them booze and about how one time i asked my mum if i could have a cooler and she said no. even though i was the legal drinking age. i think about how hard she is on me and how pissed off she makes me but also the bruise on her eye and how sick she is right now. how it irritates me when she coughs and then there it is: the immediate feeling change. is it guilt or sudden sympathy?


i cry into your sweater a lot, you know. the one that i sleep with at night. i cry into this little piece of you so that i don't have to wake you up at night but also so that i'm not as alone. tears that go into this fabric that was once on your chest. i want to write you something you'll find beautiful but i don't think that i can. i can't make something you'll understand and also find beautiful. writing poems and even sentences that i don't know how to finish because that's exactly how these feelings are. you can't click into these words and i'm breaking. but the way your eyelids look when you close your eyes at the end of the day-

i guess my purpose of writing is this: to write down the truth in whatever form it comes and from whoever i happen to be that day, so that when someone tells me of the pain my pain brings them, it feels like digging into my skin and the worst parts feeling like they just hit a nerve.