Meeville

Shallan: can I put Adolin into the box?

Therapist: no you cannot put Adolin into the box.

Kaladin: can I put Adolin into the box?

Therapist: no.

Renarin: can I put Adolin into the box?

Therapist: stop asking that. No.

Dalinar: Can I—

Therapist: No! No one is putting Adolin into the box!

Hunger on the wishing line,

Wishing to catch a luck fish, so divine,

Hoping this one’s got the lucky kiss of the wanting-life.

I real one in, with charming and looks,

The obnoxiously orange scales, delicious and bright,

I salivate at the thought of keeping this one for good.

The scales are slippery when I pull it out my net,

It falls through my fingers, love through my hand,

Onto my olive dock, on the sand.

I kick it back, shame to my name,

There’s plenty more friends in the sea,

centrifugal force on my neck

wishing for it to snap

hear the audible crack

my chest might feel lighter then it does now

across the back seat of the car

the other dead bodies dropped off

their resting places for the night

…

yearn for the pressure

on my neck

make due

My head hurts

Because of the lights

My shoulder hursts

With the weight of fuallment

My elbow pinches

And I don't know why

My hips ache

To hurt from the weight of you

My knee hurts

from trying to keep up

My anckels hurt

From falling, or trying to be taller

My feet are bruised

From dropping the stone in my chest, repeatedly

My heart is cracked

From slipping between my ribs each time I breath in your general direction

My pinky is jammed

It started with the lies,

a false smile right on que.

Then came the scratches,

not deep enough to draw.

They came with tears,

which was followed by excuses.

I try, so desperately for someone to notice my pain,

I reach out, just slightly but not quite enough.

I want someone to bridge the gap for me,

to love me enough to notice.

When no one does,

it only furthers my pain and misery.

I sit waiting for someone else to do the work for me,

There’s a quote that goes:

“There’s a lot of narcissism in self-hatred,”

And it broke the dam,

Everything burst to the surface,

All together, all at once.

I needed it,

I’ve been trying to force an name on you:

The Narcissist,

The perfect OP,

For the perfect story.

I now see the truth,

The Narcissist, is not you,

Clair voyant, you are still the muse,

I’m the self hating narrator:

Is she bitching again?

I’m what I like to call a catastrophe gay,

My emotions are splashed all over the walls,

Typically from the knife of my newest of muses,

Maybe that's my curse,

Because wherever I get close,

Am I enough for you,

Do I smile right,

Have I got the right laugh?

I see you roll your eyes at my jokes,

The moments where I’m unfiltered,

And you look at me funny.

Do I smile to wide,

Laugh too loud,

We’d rather lie than say bad, sad or mad.

And we say it with such cheer.

That no one can see our invisible tears.

The smile is so good they think it’s genuine.

The pep in our step so popping they have no other choice but to eat our lies.

I spend my fitful hours richly,

Pretending:

I’m Auryn of the Iron, or Kippa, or Abby Hayward,

Anyone, but fully me.

As I’m them, and they are me, I would visit places far beyond distant memory,

But something’s changed as of recently, I close my eyes and guide, away from this mortal plane,

The rubber band catches, snapping me back to the body.

I hate it.

Thoughts of you you you.

When I sit to read,

You’re there, in the forefront of my foundation for rational thought,

Swinging with your hammer,

I want to sleep,

To read,

Or listen to music,

Without you ruining it.

At least the muse was polite, she sat daintily on the High-horse,

Flicked tape balls in the corner.

BUT YOU.

You had to ruin it all,

I’ll look like a zombie tomorrow,

It’ll all be your fault.

I feel like that one internet meme:

“Every night… I’ll be there,”

You know the one,

Je va te dire,

En français pour que tu

ne peux pas retenir,

Se que je veux te dire,

« Je t’aime, et pas comme ami, »

Oh god, please?

It’s 5:42,

And I’m still thinking of you.

Got down cuz I’m so blue.

I keep hoping you’ll change my hue.

Getting mad cuz I’m still blue.

Yelling cuz I’m angry at you.

But still excited to see you tomorrow, too.

Way too hopeful, still thinking of you.

Getting caught in purgatory,

Getting caught in I like him maybe.

And it’s so ‘hot’ you liked her too,

‘lit’ that you might “still do.”

There is some thing to be said about me,

That I don't know who I am,

Or who I want to be,

One day I'll be emo walking the halls with urgency,

The next I'm a basic bitch with zero brain capacity,

On Fridays I'm A hippy,

Mondays I'm a whore,

Tustedays my art is worthless, always lacking some thing more,

Yesterday it was Banksy,

Tomorrow it's vampiric with tons of blood and gore,

Wednesdays is for something new, a grand idea walking through the door,

My art is like the things I wore,

Nothing is ever done with simplicity,

But there's something to be said about me:

“Girl I've been in your shoes,

Girl I followed around the muse,

Girl get a grip or you'll have worse then a bruise,”

“Bitch I'm confused...Wern't you recently in my shoes?”

“Girl I hate to be the one with bad news,

I’d kill you ten times over,

if that’s what it took,

to make myself move on.

But I think,

I’d get even more stuck,

like bees and glue.

It’s making me mad in a sense,

you’re my dead horse,

I find that poetry is the stick.

The metaphors are clunky,

and I guess so is my brain,

because it managed to solidify you as my muse.

And so I have to kill you,

but neither of us,

will see it on the news.

I think orange will suit me,

will be good for my poetry blues,

or maybe it won’t.

And I’ll keep obsessing over you,

bees and glue,

so I won’t get caught.

And I’ll kill your loverboy too,

Just as pathetic as I was,

he should move on.

I should too,

because damn if you’re not pretentious and rude,

…back to loverboy.

(And now he’s got a name,)

so much blinder then me,

Having a bad day,

Went to practice anyway,

Got the midway thru blues,

So I had to leave the room.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

“I have no taste

I wish I could think,

Im not a waste of space,

But mediocrity is made in my marrow,

And I’m depressed for no other reason,

Then it’s cool.”

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Can’t you see I’m so ‘wet’ for you,

It’s made me dehydrated,

So I feel like a husk.

And now I want water and Advil.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Lying on the floor,

I knocked over the coffee table,

Crumpled my English work,

Would have erased my A&P,

If I hadn’t lost my eraser.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

As long as I’m complacent,

We’re still friends,

At least I know,

You “Cared.”