a

there is allure to the path my desire for you takes in traversing the gates of my feeling and reason. to reconceptualize this fascination, to divorce it from romance, would spare you the lackluster betrayal and me the teething resentment. to name it queer instead, perhaps, is a methodical press of leather to skin, one that pleases and restricts in equal measure. i could not feel for you this bleeding hunger were i anyone i am not, put together by different hands or arranged in other orders. not platonic, not romantic, but a queer captivation with the thrum of your mind and the cogs in your heart. i will find solace in the walls of your labyrinth, one day. for now, the sands shift under my feet and i find myself latching onto the waves as they crash around your face, storming and elegant in the deceit of their cruel twists. we sit opposite each other, the second downpour of june beginning outside of your living room window. the cross on the wall is halfway turned and i think, we are not religious but the rosary on my neck could bring you to your knees in reverence, should you spare a look. should you spare a thought, you'd see us both in holy water. you, out of your depth. me, burning.

i’m always surprised you text me the moment i start thinking about you as if i wasn’t thinking about you all the goddamn time. stupid stupid stupid.

it takes an absolute fucking idiot to fall in love

it’s more annoying than i thought it would be to speak about death. with most people it’s just drum noise they’re making for their own enjoyment and yeah, sure, happy to be of service for you, guys, you are so welcome, there goes the daily good deed. even when it’s a friend who means well, i can’t stand that the world stands still only for me. how can you speak of little things, how can you laugh and type out a condolences message with a smiley face. i think it’s even worse when people are genuinely truly sad for me but that sadness comes and goes with the occasional thought of my name. it’s nice that people have lives of their own and aren’t realistically affected but it’s actually not, though. most of the time i would rather not tell people and not allow them access to this lukewarm sympathy. there’s realities out there where the world isn’t splitting in two and apparently it’s all but one. “the stars are not wanted now, put out every one, pack up the moon and dismantle the sun, pour away the ocean and sweep up the wood, for nothing now can ever come to any good” haunts me. how can this not be the end of the world. and what if one day i’ll feel like it wasn’t. i don’t want to feel like that. you burned so bright to me it’s like my sun is out.

i miss you more than you’ll ever know

i broke down on the bus today listening to this one song. it’s torture and relief to hear or read my feelings spelled out for me because i don’t really have the words for my grief yet. there’s just me and the absence of you which exists besides me like you used to which fills all gaps in conversation which silently answers all how are yous which swirls in my drinks which crawls under my fingernails which flashes whenever i blink my eyes which rings and blares so fucking loud like church bells or ambulance sirens or the end of the world when i mistakenly think i hear your paws on the downstairs floor or i forget myself and expect the shadow behind the door to be you waiting to be let in the house. it’s not gotten easier to get back home every day to the lack of you or to drive along the road we walked every evening. i considered going on a walk on my own but i’m just too scared to walk it without you. the cherry blossom is blooming in our garden but i can’t go out there when the last time i did was to be with you in your final hours. the stifling sun and the buzzing of the bees bring back the worst couple hours of my life and it’s suffocating and at the same time i don’t think i could handle it if it stopped being so.

the two main love interest characters from your favorite show u want me to watch have the same eye colors we do.

it comes and goes in waves but right now i’m feeling too small to carry it. like i’m about to explode.

i realize now that i’m too small and too weak to believe in nothing. i believe you’re out there, somewhere somehow, and until i can see you again i’ll miss you more than anything.

you’re with me in the garden for your last sunset. i don’t need to write about that, i don’t think i’ll ever forget.

i came downstairs to you today not knowing what i’ll see and it was a deciding moment but it didn’t feel like one. you look like you looked yesterday and i know what that means. you might not know, but you were a little different. you ate, you had water, and you wandered off to the space between the armchairs, i had to pull one away so you could squeeze in. i didn’t know what you were looking for. you went and grabbed your red ball, you haven’t done that in a while. you wanted to play with me. you rolled it back and forth on the floor with me with your big nose. you had to stop after just a little while because the swelling started to bother you and you pawed at your muzzle like you were trying to make it go away. you got up and nuzzled into me and asked me to scratch your butt, that was very silly. you were acting different than recently but more like you, like you wanted me to know you’re still how you used to be, despite the swelling and your big big muzzle. i know, please don’t worry. i sat at the table by you and you rolled over on your side, you really wanted the scratches, you kept looking at me when i stopped and it’s been a while since you looked into my eyes like that. i love you so much i don’t know what to do about any of it.

sometimes with the way that i think about you you’d think i want you dead.

perfekcjonizm...prokrastynacja...w duchu pozostania w tematyce, piszę to o dwa tygodnie spóźniona, na dzień przed spotkaniem z psycholog. moje studia nie przydają się na dużo, lecz jedna rzecz, w której powinnam błyszczeć to analiza literacka (nie żeby za dużo od siebie wymagać, ale bądźmy szczerzy). czy możemy potraktować tytułowego bohatera władcy pierścieni (tzn. pierścień) jako metaforę dotyczącą prokrastynacji? oczywiście. i czy możemy wyciągnąć wnioski, które popchną nas do zaprzestania marnowania czasu? może! patrzę na to w każdym razie tak, że perfekcjonizm przepisuje każde, prostsze czy trudniejsze dla mnie, zadanie w wycieczkę do mordoru. idę do tego mordoru, idzie się długo i nikt za mnie tego nie zrobi, bo jestem małym hobbitem i dałam się wkręcić, no i jednak fajnie by było się jakoś przyczynić do czegoś, np. ocalenia świata albo napisania licencjatu. od czasu do czasu pojawiają się nazgule w postaci mojej promotorki, która zręcznie wpisuje się w to porównanie swoim brakiem esencji życiowej i towarzyszącym jej objawieniu elementem zaskoczenia. kiedy frodo chowa się przed nimi zakładając pierścień, jest dokładnie taki jak ja, kiedy podnoszę telefon w ucieczce przed nią i tym co sobą reprezentuje. tutaj również metafora nie przestaje działać: horror egzystencjalny, dreszcze i drgawki, zjawy, mania, brak kontaktu z rzeczywistością, utrata radości, nadziei, wiary w ludzkość; i pierścień i 10-minutowe scrollowanie twitera się wpisują w ten opis. tak czy siak, pierścień ocala frodo od śmierci w kilku nagłych przypadkach, ale jest sam w sobie pułapką (pamiętajmy golluma). wabi ucieczką od rzeczywistości i konspiruje z cieniami, żeby zatrzymać cię na dłużej, na zawsze. daje ci namiastkę ulgi i sprawia, że zapominasz samego siebie, twoja potrzeba pierścienia na palcu staje się brzydka, staje się obsesją, staje się brzytwą w twoich relacjach i kulą u twojej nogi, jesteś wolny, kończy ci się jedzenie, natrafiasz na bardzo duże pająki. nie warto. frodo musi pamiętać, że na misji zniszczenia pierścienia, pierścień nie jest jego przyjacielem. sam jest jego przyjacielem i do tego z homoerotycznymi tendencjami. (pierścień could never.) morał z tego jest taki, że metaforyczny pierścień jest przyjemny na palcu frodo, ale ciąży. oglądając film kręcimy głową za każdym razem jak go zakłada, bo przecież wiemy lepiej. wybierając zrobienie kilku więcej metaforycznych kroków do mordoru mam szansę na dojście tam kiedyś i pogłębienie homoerotycznej więzi z metaforycznym samem. to są chyba obiektywnie lepsze rezultaty.

— a

it’s so high school and cliché to cry on your birthday. i wonder whether i conditioned myself to hate it because it was the angsty teenager thing to do, and if that even matters because here i am anyway wishing it was yesterday or tomorrow in a way that feels sincere after all. but it’s an effort going around, glueing together people’s calendar pages, and ripping others apart. it doesn’t feel worth it. the attention feels just as bad as the lack of it but it’s not news to anyone that nothing is ever good enough for me. a god and a dog at the same time in the same way.

i wish you’d leave me alone. i wish you’d stop speaking to me, stop texting me, stop looking at me on the rare occasion that you do, unprompted. i wish you didn’t smile that smile at me, the careless, endlessly amused one, the one that makes you look like you’re waiting on what i’ll say and you know it’ll make you laugh. that one, you should stop that. it makes me want to die. a lot about you does, maybe that lends itself to cigarettes between my fingers and late returns on the night bus. you’d make this much easier for me if you shut me out, if you found me insufferable and abhorrent and detestable. i fear above everything else that instead you regard me as perfectly alright.