#random prose

I am not one to process emotions well or quickly or consistently. I don't like a lot of stimuli, yet I cannot handle stagnation or a colorless, tasteless moment. I'm so sorry I am hard to love sometimes; I struggle to understand what I am supposed to feel and do. I am committed to being truthful to myself and to you, and sometimes that means admitting I want to dig my fangs into you. I feel untamed, feral, and cornered when I try to love you. I do not understand how to be a doll or a delicate flower or an enchanting melody. I only understand narrowed eyes, stiff lips, and the cool air of your breath on my neck if I turn my back on you.

I love you in the way a lion is not the strongest, fastest, or smartest beast, but is one a widely respected predator nonetheless. I love you in the way it is dangerous for a water buffalo to cross deep rivers, but still strides in because of instinct and need. I love you in the way a pack of wolves keeps its strongest members at the back when traveling, so the weak are not left behind.

It's a fracture

This boyhood dream

Buried in all of those screams

And the cool stream

It was long ago

And it's covered in mud

Catching frogs

And chasing bugs

Whether 1958 or years too late

Lemonade stands

And window fans

I can't apologize

I'm trying to remember

Those moments

All that's dismembered

And deep September

Climbing trees

And setting those traps

For myself to fall in

And Marco Polo is calling

Somewhere on the lake

For Pete's sake

Somewhere off the path

I could hear them now

All those ladies asking how

And others with their why

And I'd stay up all night

Counting it in my head

And I stay up all night

Filling it up with dread

The stars are shining

And the crickets still sing

As the old movie plays

Of boyhood days

All too far

He never asked to be heard. He'd rather he never was. But he'll scream for those whose bottles never reached the shore, forgotten in life's cruel waves.

It's just the taste of it all, that little whimper and that wandering twitch that brings it all crashing down. They say that all sins are forgiven before God, but it's all back there, left in my own fog. And I don't mind being wrong every once in awhile but I don't need to be told about it either.

It's the way the ground moves under your feet, and it's the look in your eyes, like a confused doe caught in my headlights. It's the groove where I'll fit, that space tightly nestled, as you thrash under the weight of it all.

It's midnight and it's six in the morning. It's the fresh coffee on my lips and the cigarette butts dropped. It's that feeling in my lower stomach and the burning that runs through the toes. It's a begging, dirty word, whispered and not screamed, lashing out for a momentous stumbled breath that you're never given.

It was falling again, it's 4:45pm and I'm no longer sure how long I'd like to live, or how long I will at all.

I'm feeling the pit, that giant gape, the burial plot. I'll lie down and cover myself with dirt.

Maybe it was one too many words. Maybe it was the cat getting caught. Maybe it was an unecessary shot, this space of inferiority. It's a maddening drone, and it's so very dull. I can't decide if I want to burn or watch you ignite.

It's so useless, this clenching. I just want perfection, I want statues and I want people to remember. But instead I sit, sinking, looking for a way to bite deep.

I want control, I want posession of it all. And forgive me for being so crude, but I want you on your knees, begging. I know it's washed out, and I'm lost in that sea.