Digressions

I used to dip my brush into a poet’s words. How do I explain everything that entails? I was hiding behind the romantic depictions of my past.

The romantic language from this makes me sick – “I said that?” – it’s a symptom of some mental ailment, of being lost in a city I didn’t belong, of not having access to the beach. “Sparkling chains, golden wolves, flesh on flesh”, these string of words have a limited use – about once in a lifetime usually exhausted by the time a healthy scholar finishes intermediate school, but I kept going, or I didn’t get enough “cringe” out in high school. I think you should try this shame – at least lets have this in common. Where a mistake would normally be something like buying a lemon car from a crook dealer, instead send prose to an attractive person you assumed to be deep an introspective because the radio played “Sex on Fire” while you made out in his car.

Last night I showed up to a club where I normally run into the friend of an ex-friend

I was tired and he told me to get home.

Seemed dismissive, but that’s my pessimism not seeing the reality that is:

Talking to him was exhausting, it’s climbing a wall, but not really. It’s like climbing a wall but if I get caught climbing by a security camera things can get ugly, and I’ll be subject to the mercy of logic. Logic doesn’t care how much good intention I had in my confused heart (“heart” has reached it’s limit).

Why can’t I just observe? I was having issues with this, don’t tell me to speak up please. I’ll get there at my own pace, without drugs or an impressive reputation.

No more poeple for me. I clearly can’t handle it for now.

I couldn’t disagree with him – incredibly defeating. I just kept seeing myself as that girl he talked about over the phone, a slut, or on some chick flick art-imitating reconnaissance mission trying and failing to cunningly to get information on her friend’s boyfriends. I know – I KNOW – I should not be this insecure, oscillating between I am her and I am better than her – but I was. These people are imaginary. These people don’t even exist and they are getting in my head. These people could not keep you.

I walked home.

To You, once my moralist, a label you don’t deserve but I made it true for myself,

Listen, you are wrong. I can stalk people, and text them poetry, and get chased on the street after steeling a bike in fear that I am not strong enough to fend off three drunken men. What I want has never been an issue beyond the awkwardness.

I love your home, all the curated altars and shrines. It’s a cathedral to someone like me.

My childhood altars grew under couches and behind shelves until they were discovered and thrown away. An ecosystem destroyed over night. My creations were frequently destroyed by these sort of natural disasters. “You brought it back.” I didn’t like that when I told you how you brought back that dead part of me, you told me it comes from “inside me” in earnest, as if I am in the process of becoming codependent of you to rebuild me shrines. I always imagined our ruined moments like these were a result of you projecting your ex on to me, or projecting the cumulation of all the women you’ve fucked on to me, I don’t know, I just know something was off, and I couldn’t sleep next to you that night. (I felt bad for interpreting you this way, I wanted to see you as more complex, as more than the simple trendy relationship labels the left half of the battle of the sex’s was throwing out into the desperate like confetti) He’s not.

When you slept, your breath was always so uneven, like you were awake pretending to sleep, like you were catching yourself snoring as you drift off and stopping it. So observant of how I perceive you even in your sleep. You kissed my scars, and I didn’t like that you found them so fast, maybe you can decipher their origin too. I wasn’t ready to be observed and accepted yet, it was too tender, like something I didn’t deserve yet.