soft at the touch

the past has taught me that nothing is going to save me. the present has taught me that i have never been less alone. i wish it was enough to hold a hand and tighten my grip

but i still need to put into words something no one can know. maybe it’s my own fault for keeping it in my chest until my ribs come out of my body

you know, they tell you: when you don’t now what to write, write about not knowing what to write

but what do you do when there’s too much of it? how do i write it into submission? into more managable, shorter sentences, so words spell words and not script a scene

maybe i’m dramatic because nothing’s small enough to fit my body. have you ever thought about it like that? ever had your guts inflate until you’re puking them out?

you should thank me for dramatizing words. this way the only inconvinience is turning the page. what a bummer to clean blood off my bedroom floor. your hands weren’t meant to– blah blah blah

at least we’d have something to talk about

i do feel a little insane at times; so i write it down and hand it out because i’ve forgotten what it’s like to laugh outside of folie a deux 

but what do you do when there’s too much of it? how do i write it into submission? into more manageable, shorter sentences, so words spell words and not script a scene

maybe i’m dramatic because nothing is small enough to fit my body. have you ever thought about it like that? ever had your guts inflate until you’re puking them out?

you should thank me for dramatizing words. this way the only inconvenience is turning the page. what a bummer to clean blood off my bedroom floor.

your hands weren’t made for– blah blah blah

but at least we’d have something to talk about

i do feel a little insane at times; so i write it down and hand it out because i’ve forgotten what it’s like to laugh outside of folie à deux

cement fills our spaces, rock solid in the best of cases, secure and safe, down to earth and bed-ridden with antipsychotics-induced dreams

i can't be soft, airy and light when your circumstances beg for it; your feet don't touch the ground and you float away. i'm left behind, anchored down, staring as you go. something must be wrong with me– maybe i'm too rough, too direct and not empathetic enough for you to lie your head on my shoulder. useless. sometimes helpful and sometimes not

i don’t like watching you rely on someone else when i’m standing right beside you

everyone's a cycle. tag in tag out dip in dip out get in get out. first choice then afterthought. chosen once replaced later

i'm not above sacrifice to become needed. i am made of paper thin self-esteem and holes calling to be stuffed with reassuring sentences then brought home. i bury you in me using fingernails because i'm not above being hurt by you either

though we do have our things: movements in sync, matching words, all hidden in plain sight and mine alone. i don't say ours because i know you don't need them like i do. you don't obsess and unload them on notebooks because you barely want to write about anything else

not long after we first talked you spared me enough string to tie us the only way i know how: simple knot, loose, so you can detach when i push you away while i fight with myself not to get entangled

and i do believe. you made it impossible not to. i press my thumb and index fingers trying to reshape you into safer, less terrifying dimentions. (it’s kind of your fault; with your presistence and the honesty and how i can’t remember the last time someone felt like claws digging into me, like danger, but i wouldn’t have to tend the wounds alone. it’s kind of my fault for letting you take up so much space)

so i need to squeeze you into a tiny little form; imperceptible. diminute. so meaningless the needles will barely prick at my skin and your threat will be holding a toy gun

it takes practice to dismiss like this. i need to twist the words into bitterness; leaving an aftertaste so i won’t try to swallow them again. until they almost taste like nothing i want to hold onto

but i do hold. and i do taste– so sweet i’ve got a tummy ache. sugary honey cavitating my teeth and there’s whole pieces of myself rotting

it's not so much about winning as it is about belonging. forever misplaced and craving a home you don't know the street number of. you think stepping in would change you. something. anything

the house you live in is empty (you beg them to contribute.) wood furniture held together by tape, mold induced headache. spider web silk for sheets, sticks to and strangles your skin 

drop the hand holding tight what once was in your grasp

deep down certainty hid for a moment. left was comfort, warmth, feeble, featherlight, sneaking between ribs thighs harsh yet soft at the touch