l'éveil

i fucking hate how brainwashed i am.

my head is like a spinning top - the speed may be too much and i could ask for it to stop or to at least slow down, as such - but then my inner toddler would get bored.

wish there was something to wrap my heart in to make it stronger keep it together filter the feelings which do not serve me bury it down, grow something new

somebody came and stole my soul or did i leave it in a house somewhere? could i steal it back from the person who took it? or go back to the place where i left it? can i wake it back from the dead can i resurrect it? i wrote a lot of music on robie street i did a lot of yoga on pepperell what were the links connecting these?

when will i stop asking for certainty and begin finding inspiration in not knowing? keep asking, keep leaning against it; begging for it to budge. when will the sysyphian wall of questions finally manifest as the door unhinge itself, and the foundation of my worrying crack and crumble and become rubble.

why am I so lonely? it's like I'm fucking incompetent if I don't have company. where did this come from? I used to be fine. I feel pathetic. so disappointed in most people. the most disappointed in myself, though. I need to start smoking weed again.

got so much practice, I'm practically a master; adapted to outlasting being ignored and holding faster to the silence. my shoulder's so frozen cold that it's violent. the best at pretending, I'm bending - not breaking, defending my faking with shaking hands. my attempt to rest just lends itself to pressure against my chest as opposed to vision questing with eyes closed 'cause my heart knows i'm phoney and so scared of being exposed. i DO care. it's ended. although, refuse to show it 'cause it's not beneficial to confess. I'm sorry that you couldn't love me the way I needed you to.

it seems i’ve been trading sleep for dreams alone again as it’s nearing dawn my heart never grows out of stupid but shadows are the only evidence of sun my heart only breaks like the day, like the waves my stomach just turns  like the earth, like a page lessons revisited like learning this, is as if to exist in a permanent threshold but i know it will end and the door will open eventually, but until then my heart only breaks like the day, like the waves my stomach just turns like the earth, like a page

“...because you get upset about stuff that i do and you challenge me on things and i don’t like it because you’re supposed to feed my ego, not shake it.’ - getting dumped by fuckboys

you’re disgusting.

i’m snooping. fuck,  ew. i think i might puke - the blood pumping so hard in my head i might lose it. i’ve only got a few minutes before he’s back in the room, & i’ve had this looming feeling that there’s something to look for. look more. shallow breaths. every time i hear his steps, i’m frantic - exiting apps and pretend that i’ve been resting. but, he’s gone again and i go on again; checking messages and  getting restless and the anxiety is methodic the stress gets me robotic as i read my worst fears in the texts. fuck. i knew it.   i fucking knew it. throw down the phone - quick - your stomach is turning, it’s churning, lurching for the bathroom the back of your throat gets to burning with bile. “Hey gorgeous, what are you up to this weekend? Great smile.” i’m gagging - it can’t be real, “Wow, you’re stunning, want to come over and work on some music sometime?” that wretch.  nothing’s coming out because i haven’t been eating much lately. “Skate date?  Loser buys coffee!” i’m heaving.  too shocked to cry, even. losing my mind with the truth.  the proof. i knew it.   i fucking knew it. how to confront it? how to admit i was snooping? but i knew there was something to look for. i knew i’d find the truth.

hunger makes the body too distracted to think about them anyway.

you are not brave enough to  reject the ideals that you were taught, the standards that oppress me, from every angle, every curve. you, who covets my form yet, rejects the philosophy which promises my freedom from abuse, from rape, from “bullying”. you, who tells me that my underarms are disgusting, not even with your words, but with your rejection. you, who is attracted to me, but not to all of me because my patch of effeminate fuzz,  neighbor to my breasts, which bounce with pride that one day, i can feed tiny, innocent humans. because, women aren’t supposed to have body hair, they told you. because, feminism is a bad word, synonymous for man-hating, they told you. because, that is disgusting, because, a woman’s worth is in her kemptness & her grooming & her image, they told you. they told you and, you listened. you believed that, and despite being intrigued by my strength and my health and my finesse - you cannot love me. for you are not brave enough. for you are not willing to rewrite your beliefs in, what makes a woman, “womanly”. and as for me - i will be over here dancing, sweating, embracing my hair under my arms, neighbor to my breasts defining the lines, sculpted from loving myself with stretching, with work, with play. because my femininity is not defined by a razor, or baldness. my femininity is defined by nature, and by my relationship to it. and, in this lifetime, we will not be lovers. for you are not brave enough.

i couldn’t have thought more wrong.

how i wish i were wrong how i wish just for once you'd show up out of the blue just because you were thinking about me and crawl over me and squeeze me and tell me not to worry, that everything is going to be alright and that you love me and that you want to be there for me and to protect me from the bad things or that you would wake up and call me to say you were thinking about me and wanted to have coffee and make love before we start the day i wish i didn't have this romantic imagination or the capacity to love another