#garbage blogging

The anxiety of this whole week has been higher than normal, the anxiety of travel is always higher than normal, and sometimes my anxiety and my excitement and my desperate desire to deserve the love and wonder of the people I’ve come to cherish most can feel the same way as those things, like a weight, like arms wrapped very tightly across my chest. They hold hands, they whisper in each other’s ears. They encourage each other. My little fears, those fingers running cold and hot over the knobs of my spine, the backs of my hands, the straight lines of my collarbones. I’ve worn the same necklace for months straight because I swear it brings me good luck or safety, whichever comes first or counts more. It’s hard to tell. I call things by the names of the people they belong to. Melina, Jessica, Joseph. Like they’re there, like I’m holding their hands instead of that fear, like I can have them bear the brunt of some of my bad thinking. I’m trying to write about my feelings separately, trying not to write about them isolated but as themselves together, how the colors in one bracelet stand out against each other even woven together, but the truth is that I can’t, the truth is that these metaphors are awful, the truth is that I’m tired, the truth is that I keep sitting down and half-crying into my hands, the truth is that my heart feels like it’s throwing itself around the rooms of its house like a child having a tantrum, like everything in me is threatening a mutiny, they want out, I’ve left a mess, there’s all the truth locked up, there’s so much dust over everything, how can I even tell anymore what’s what, how can they know to clean up. I wish I could keep writing like I’m not talking to myself or to anyone specific. I wish I didn’t feel transparent even if I’m not transparent. I wish I didn’t feel like such an awful coward, and by awful I mean selfish, like someone who has made too many mistakes and loved badly, like I’ve failed already at the thing I’ve always admired so much, the thing I always swore I’d do my best to be good at. I want to stop talking altogether knowing I won’t do anything, feel that I can’t, keep checking myself, wanting to reach out a hand to touch the back of yours, to smooth one strand of your hair, to lean my head against your shoulder, to affirm that you’re real, that you smell like you, that you’re warm and breathing, that it isn’t a dream this time, that you can look and feel beautiful at once, alive and happy to see me, a miracle, a wish made life, because everything has boiled down into something so simple, the way desire is so circular, always eating itself, forever growing larger and smaller simultaneously: I want everything and nothing or just the one thing, to kiss you on the mouth and hold you between both hands forever even if just to prove that I care so much it’s like screaming, or to touch the shorter sides of your hair once, to look up once and catch you looking at me and not feel like I’ve kicked myself hard in the stomach, something I’ve wanted often to do but haven’t done because I can’t, I can’t, I can’t, I can’t.

emo bird phase

I am going to take a food coma.