yes, this is about you- don't get too excited

the world is so deranged
so full of thick, black, tar
people are hurt by who they love
someone somewhere who only wants to live currently
contemplates how to die
he's been low all his life but,
he'll be damned if he doesn't hang high above all else once this knot is tied

how ironic

but then enters you
you with wild colored hair
you with freckles so flawlessly dusted across your nose
and you are so strange
so hidden
long sleeves, sad eyes
you say "do not be attached to me"
with flashing neon signs

...so I talk to you
of course

I
haven't had you
for
long at all but
you're smiling so much
so often
you once were a gravestone waiting to be placed
but look at you now!
you're face is so full of life
you've stopped waging war at your own arms
and

to tell you honestly,
you have made me more myself than i ever have been
I
haven't picked up a book in so long
but I've got three of your choice
jammed between my thighs
I
will not lie to you
I'm
scared out of my mind
but
so are you
the
odds are against us
and we both know too well
these things can go so wrong
so quickly

finding you
concealed between pages in these books
peeling back the layers and walls you put up for yourself
giving you
my poetry
my words

you are here
and holding me
and I feel nothing
but
placid
tranquil
enveloped in your arms
buried in your neck
while you squeal
-how cute

when
at some point
if
we end this
I hope we remain friends
I
hope I've changed you
for the better
like i
promised I would

I know you
have scars
and healing wounds
I won't kiss them better
but I have never seen more beauty
more vulnerable, open-ended love
like I've seen in you

i
will make you feel beautiful again
if it's all that I do

.001

When writing stories like these, the ones that have a million words governed by paper walls, seeping out the crevices, it is difficult to know where to start. Here I am, opening a peephole to see inside my own head, and being flooded with my own thoughts and words. I am eager to tell the stories and write what begs to be written, but I don’t know how. So I’ll start this regardless of the fact that this will most likely be another half sewn quilt in my closet full of unfinished ends.


I like to blame my rocky life and it’s precipitates as the reason for my downfall. I always want to view someone as an enemy, but I think that all along, there never was one. I was wearing all black, painting my face, dying my hair, snarling at the world, but at some point, the freight-train stops speeding, and you have to stop and think; who am I fighting? The thing is, with the gray, is it stays. It sticks to your soul and burns you alive, and it won’t stop there, it’ll burn your fucking ashes. That’s how it works. It eats you inside until you are a hollowed out space. A vacant lot waiting to be bought, filled, and sold. It becomes all you know. Wrapping you up until you're so involved with yourself that you can’t see past your own insecurities. You are a puppet to your own misfortune. Writing poetry about how no one cares while your best friend blows up your phone with "are you okays'" and "hey I'm worried for you". You'll write, and rewrite (and rewrite and rewrite and rewrite and rewrite) your suicide letters again and again. 15 paged good byes' with too many 50 cent words (you pretentious fuck; don't worry, we all secretly are) and 8 'fuck yous' per page. You always loved eulogies, you figure you should write your own.
We are blamers, ill wishers. I’ll blame my mother, my father, an old babysitter who had razor fingers. I could blame anyone. That’s what people like me and you (us) do. We are the definition of ‘fucked up’, but at our own choice. It’s ups and downs. Little epiphanies where we pretend that we have found the answer to life, that we are happy and fulfilled, philosophers, writers, we want to pretend that we are anything but what we are. On a euphoria. The calm before the storm. Then it’s the crash. Then we fall fall fall way back down deeper than before. The thing is, depression isn’t like it’s written in the books. Depression isn’t being madly in love so much that it hurts you, it isn’t that slow sad indie song you have on repeat, it isn’t tears or sadness, bloody knuckles, or some rose petal, dove-flying chou to the world. It’s much deeper than that. Slit your wrists, hang yourself, down some pills, you always thought you were different but look at you, pill bottle in hand, just like every other sad soul. You can romanticize suicide until your dying breath, but you'll still shit yourself when your organs began to fail and someone will still find you, ugly brown blood dried on your wrists, or puke slathered on the side of your face, or eyes bulged out, face blue and ugly- romanticize that. We can continue, walking on with the media and the authors who tell stories of sad girls and boys falling love and being better but it’s not true. Deep down, we know it’s not. Love is, like any other emotion, it is not stronger than the rest. Someone will not come to you and tell you your eye sparkle like the stars, that you're the thing they’ve been waiting for while they kiss your neck, and you will magically be solved of the gray. That’s not how it works. At the end of the day it’s better to stop searching- we destroy what we love. It is not to say that there is no hope, that there is no love. I won't pretend I know. What I do know is that love will not save you, maybe assist or destroy, but not save you. Put down your Nicholas Sparks and kiss your own scars.
For someone who lives in gray, there is nothing more erotic than happiness; and to a fault, we will search for it in other people. We will look for answers in self help books, read between the lines, underline and highlight our favorite books until every word is tinged in yellow- comments written up and down the sides, pages frayed and falling out from the spine, read poetry we think tell us the answer- over analyze it because we think we’re poetic, listen to the songs that sing of understanding-burn the lyrics into our mind and skin, but we’re searching in the wrong and we know it. It is almost as if, we enjoy being hopeless. Of course there is hopelessness, we are searching for water in the desert.