20 October 2008

Hey Jealousy...

I've been thinking of these items lately: a cheese wheel lounging around, coffee rinds spilling onto a table, and sugar loaves swelling out. They close their (swiss) hol(e)y eyes. They rub up against the (polished) wood. They roll around without a second thought. They frolic in frivolous fractions. One half of those questioned believe that love exists. The other half call them jaded. The other half purse their cynical thin lips and raise one corner of their noses in disgust. Why is it that when you want images, such as these, to stay out of your life, they always have to come back and poke their noses into your ribcage, snuffle around a bit, and then go back to sleeping in their little beds, not without leaving you aching for something more than just this paltry reminder, this unsatisfactory nostalgia, this pain that only goes to a certain point. It's not so much of a stab, as a flickering flame. How come I always get stuck being the one trying to convince people not to commit suicide? I mean, don't you think, God, that that's a lot of burden to put on one person? To be the sole convincing factor keeping them alive? To not know if they're serious or not serious. To be afraid to just brush it off in case, this time, they really are? And what if I fuck it up? What if I say the wrong thing, or don't push the point strong enough, or what if I'm just busy with ten million other things, and I can't take the time to worry whether he lives or dies? I mean, every time we talk, it's the same fucking thing. And then I just get angrier and angrier. I mean, what am I supposed to say? There's only so many ways I can say "No, I care about you." Like, don't fucking message me for help and then blame me for it. But underneath the anger is my fear. What if I fuck it up? What if I fuck it up? What if he kills himself? Would it all be my fault? I can't handle this kind of stress, even though it seems like I continually wind up in this spot, between two walls with no way out but up. And unfortunately, I haven't yet learned to fly. Away from anything. Or anyone. These things are really managing to harsh the mellow that I've established for myself. The routine of school, school, school, study, study, study. See a friend or two. See someone I'd like to be with, or two. Not really open my mouth. Not really yell out how I feel (Like. Why don't you see?? Like. I care about you. Like. She's stupid if she doesn't see how amazing you are. Like. I want to be your bedbug. Like. Like. Like. Love.) I maange to not really crack this exterior shell I've glued together, made of broken macaroni bits and postcards and the corners of photographs, since those seem to be the only bits that remain constant. I'm not saying it's a good mellow, but it's a balance, and I'd appreciate it if dogs stayed asleep and yeast didn't rise. I'd appreciate it if circles would stay broken when you tried to crack their flow. I'd appreciate it if I could just live in peace and love without interruption. Just let me purse my thin lips and raise one half of my nose. "You were the best I ever had..."

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