kids are sociopaths

I watched them
swaying
doing dishes
hip to hip
in time to
the music.

And what was that picture?
Above the table
with the seashell lamp
in the room with
the ceramic dalmation.
That picture
frustrated me
and made me jealous
of the stupidest
little
angel.

Why they would want
to
show him off.

the vastness

I have a feeling
that puppy love isn't
really
puppy love.

I have a feeling that
it's almost
a way to de-
humanize
a very
human
chemical balance
and
imbalance.

I
don't believe
in
puppy
love.

Next christmas
I'm getting you
a big
wooden
cross.

So the next time you feel your
sacrifices
unappreciated,
you can climb up
And nail
yourself to it.

I think that maybe,
if it were of a desperate sort
you would want it more. Want me more.
The matter of the thing is,
What if it is desperate for one person,
and not so for the other?

I'm just letting you know,
I don't need you.
I can make so many, plenty of beautiful things,
with or without your company.
Unfortunately for you,
I tend to be satisfied,
regardless of my frustrations,
Or how angry you make me.

Fuck you. Just fuck you for trying.

I cannot drink too much,

You make me feel so empty sometimes,
because you're so full of everything.
You're full of words and ideas and honest-to-god faithfulness.
You're full to the brim with tears,
big, salty, warm tears that go splash when they land.

You are full, so full in fact
that you over-swell the cup at times.
You flood and you flow and you drench me in your sweetness.
And afterward, when I've been set out to dry,
and your essence is evaporating away, away from me
I try and snatch back what I can from the theiving air.
Like a child I cling to the promises, the dreams and ceremonies.
For fear, for worry, for enduring promise.

You're so full, when you're not trying to fill me.

An Ode to Target

Illuminating red beckons those who seek to
invest in hats, scarves, and gloves for the bitter bitch
that winter is.

A concrete monster separates you from salvation,
painted yellow, assigning your personal space,
and limiting your dance.

But a step and a stumble over pot-holes
that wish to swallow you whole,
a glass automatic door awaits.

You prance, clutching the insides of your pockets,
yearning for that first breath of warmth,
itching for a smile and a, "May I help you?"

And though your second wish never comes,
it is enough to be able to spread your lips
in a smile that can only spring from thawing limbs.

It's hard for me to think that you actually want me in that way.
Why? I'm not necessarily sure. I've been wanted before, I think.
I am usually, whether you like it or not, an after-thought.
Though some beg to differ,
and if I am that, I'm accepting.
I'm accepting it regardless of my future-self.
Fuck that embodiment of myself and my ideals.

I've never thought of it that way before.
I've also never been this honest.
I've lied to you twice, that I've counted.
And only a week in, whew.
What a strain.

In case you forget:

"I like when you touch my shoulders like that. It makes me feel strong."
--------------------------------------------------------------------------
"I love you--"
"Tah?"
"What?"
"You love Utah. That's cool."
-------------------------------
"Something like honey--"
"Honey."
"Yeah, like sweetie--"
"Honey-sweetie."
"Like, baby."
"Honey-sweetie-baby."
----------------------------
"Too far away, Jessi."
----------------------------
"Having all of your clothes on sucks."
---------------------------------------
"I wish Sperber were here."
------------------------------
"When I say things like, 'sternum' I think, 'who cares?'"
---------------------------------------------------------
"I don't want you to ever regret any night you spend with me."
--------------------------------------------------------------
"Where's Aaron Brodersen when you need him?"
---------------------------------------------
"I kind of missed you."
------------------------
"I don't know who's creepier:
Me for having hairy legs, or you for liking them. I think it's you."
--------------------------------------------------------------------

This is from December 26th, 2010.
Fucking hell. I probably should have listened to my first instinct.

************************************************

I am not exactly on cloud nine. Like I thought I'd be.
I'm not feeling girlish.
Because what if I am just your safety plan?
I have a feeling that you're unstable enough to use me in that way.
Even though I know you wouldn't realize it, it's what you're doing.

Maybe.

It's like I was sitting with a plate in front of me. And it was empty.
It was empty for a really long time, and when I pictured you on my platter,
you looked a lot tastier than you seem at the moment.
And now that you're there, you seem like you've been cut in half.
Like you have a huge hole where the hearty, tasty goodness used to be.

Whether I want to believe it or not,
life is not all about getting some for me.
I want you to taste and BE as delicious as you were a month ago.

I wish I could just rip you apart and devour you so you could always be mine, and I wouldn't have to worry about my plate anymore.
Because you wouldn't be in front of me, you'd be inside, sitting, swimming through me.

The back of my head feels like someone nailed a board to it.
That's the fear. It's laid it's egg right there in the back of me skull.
And I hope it doesn't hatch all over you tomorrow.

I'm so scared. I haven't been this scared in awhile.

I need to sleep.
No more of this drug of Sleep Deprivation.
No more.


Honey-sweetie-baby.
Is that what you want?
Well of course.
I'll do anything for you.

Charlotte,

I understand why you didn't like Steve Martin, okay?
I understand why you never played barbies with me, and always made Leroy.
I get that I was, in retrospect, a replacement child.
I'm sorry I never called you
I'm sorry I never wrote
I'm sorry I didn't tell you how much I thought about you.
And I'm sorry that I lost the music box you gave me.

I think that it sucks that this is all I can give you right now.
I think that it's a shame that I am a teenager, oh so devoted to the art of attention whoring.

I wish you could see me all grown up.
I just know you'd be proud of me.
Because for some reason, you never once noticed a fault of mine.

And I'm angry. I'm not angsty. I'm not upset.
I am angry and hurt and selfish
for wanting you to stay.

And came a comrade for the taking

I tend to get frustrated a lot.
And nothing I do, whether it be an attempt to rid me of said stress, or just anything to try and calm or soothe or make joyful myself and anyone else, helps.

Everything I do must be a dilemma.
A conundrum.

Simplicity within my own head would be nice sometimes.
Because even if I forget one thing,
there is another lurking in the swells.

I don't really want to talk about anything.
But I do. Every single day. Out of a wretched habit.
A ritual. A routine that I've fallen into.

You know, I think perhaps it's time to be quiet.
Because when I talk, I only complicate.
And no one would mind.
In fact, I like listening to Annemarie, Jordan, Spencer, Mason, Nicole, Avery, Wade..etc. more than I like the sound of my own whining. Or my own questions.

Perhaps it's time to ponder.
It's time to focus.
And time to un-focus, if you get my meaning.

But within all this solitude,
it would be nice to have a comrade.

Dontcha just love?

Never did I ever think I would feel such anger towards you, hold so much against you.
Don't call me sweet,
don't kiss my cheek,
don't take my hand.

Never have I ever felt that I could so easily feel such pure, intense, free of extraneous elements of any kind, unadulterated dislike. Needless to say, I don't hate you. By gum, I wish I did. Then I could say it. But I don't. I can't even write it. And I'll probably talk to you tomorrow.

Fuck you.
I hate that you're you.
And I would hate it if you weren't.



I fucking hate you.


(retract that last statement)

stop eating my brain

I am so unbelievably frustrated.
Spencer's made me forget for a while.
And now I'm right back up on that horse.

I hate no-bake cookies

Rejection doesn't teach a lesson,
or make every accepting person or experience better,
it just makes me angry.
And emotional and explosive.

No one is ever a fan of rejection,
but why now?
why YOU?
Like YOU'RE something special.
Like YOU deserve better than me?


God damnit.
Perhaps you do.
Maybe I just need to admit to myself that I am not all that desirable.
I mean, not that I wasn't fully aware of this, thanks.
But by YOU?

This is just humiliating.

And why, WHY is it humiliating?
Because I set my standards so low, so that I have no fear of getting rejected, because usually I assure my success before I delve into anything?

I'm getting desperate.
I know that sounds pathetic.
But you will never have any idea of how utterly true that statement has come to be.

I hate you, because I hate myself,
and I hate that I hate myself,
because I don't, really.
And I don't hate you.

And all of these emotions that I think I forge are real.
I'm feeling things against my better judgement,
and against my will.
And I don'ttry to fight it.
Why would I?
Up until now,
I've been just peachy,
skimming the surface of everything,
saying all the right-wrong things.

Just spouting intracacies,
and idiocracies.

And emitting an endless amount of blank space,
space for me,
space for my selfishness to flourish,
and my own body to stretch and be content.
I don't have room for anyone else, really.
But I've found you more than once lounging beside me,
in this lush false paradise I've created.

I hate that feeling.
That someone is sharing in my selfishness.

Fuck you.
Fuck you.
Fuck you.

I just don't get the feeling that I'll be able to shake this. Or you. For quite some time.

I hope you rot in hell.
But not really, you good christian you.

I just have harsh feelings toward you at the moment.
But if you break down and call me,
this will probably all go away.

Mostly.

the very definition of contentiment

There is a prominent yearning for and of simplicity,
with a side of nostaligia
and it's not extremely strenuous to push aside all unsuccessful efforts,
and just engorge myself in conversation and love
when I'm in certain company.

In otherwords,
I love being at your house, Jordan.

I didn't lie.

I do feel queasy.


I really do appreciate my mother.
As long as you're honest with her and hers, she's pretty awesome.

Solitude.
Don't get me wrong, it's nice and peaceful sometimes. Times when I enjoy being alone as much, or more, than I enjoy being around people.

Plus, I'm not too nice to people these days.
I don't know what's happened.
It's not like I don't know I hurt people's feelings.
But I take them into consideration afterwards.
But by then, they've moved on, and I'm left to think that I can't take that second back. I can't take those words back.

I've become bitter, mostly.
though, I still enjoy myself quite a lot.
I don't blame anyone but myself.


All I want is to get lost in a book.
In some one else's life.
Problems
social barriers
love life
and internal conflicts.

It's odd to think,

that I'll be singing a love song I wrote about you, in front of you.
And I doubt that you notice that I stare.
Eye contact is my enemy.
Because when I'm looking at you, not only do I feel asphyxiated,
but I feel like your gaze is unlocking me, and I feel loose.
I feel free.
I feel bare,
your hands are in your own pockets,
keeping your arms busy,
and you're not there to blanket me.

I MISS ELISABETH.
I wonder if she knows what a sunspot is..
I'm pretty sure she does, but she lets me call her that anyway :)

I find an intensely focused brain incredibly attractive.
The thought of someone explaining things like computer programming, or quadratic equations during sex is just..gorgeous.

The first time I wrote that sentence,
instead of 'sex' I wrote 'intercourse'
How lame is that?
Sex is such a great word.

random musings

“Insecurities are about as useful as trying to put the pin back in the grenade.”

The show will be super..? I have no idea what my feelings on the show are. Maybe I should just take away the '..?' and just put an '!'

The show will be super!

That feels good.


So. I do this thing, where whenever I'm into someone, I tell whoever I can. And I haven't told anyone anything as of recently. It's refreshing.
It's not that I like bottling things up, or hiding things.
But I'm just having an ickle laugh to myself over my own teenage dramas.

She sits,
not alone in her thoughts,
but accompanied by another of herself.
Another of one that she is, and at times,
is not.

I think I'll keep my knowledge to myself for awhile.
Why not be up front? Why let my anger boil and writhe inside me?

No one has ever made me feel as cheap and used and unloved and unwanted as you just did.

the sun vs. the law

I've never been the best significant other.
People have no trouble falling out of love with me.
When it comes down to it, I'm just too easy to out-shine.

But I'm accepting, eventually,in every situation.
It's pathetic, really.