Monday, December 14, 2015

Nowhere left to run

You're everything I'm not.  You're the bullet and I'm just the shot.  You have wings and my arms are fraught with scars and bruises.

Why is my narrative composed of holes in the dark and worn skin?  Why do I sit alone in silence hoping for someone to come in?  All the decisions I've tried to make today feel empty and fickle.  Productivity tells me I'm not doing enough.  My inner insides tell squeeze at me like a clamp.  I want to flee from here.  I want to be okay with who I am.  I want to disappear and return as a new start.  I'm not suicidal, but the times just seem to be rolling waters.  What am I doing for others?  What am I doing for myself?  Am I really that cheap?

As the rest just pair off I wallow alone, as if drowning under sheets.  Alone, I've grown accustom to the things I hate about myself.  Hate is too strong a word; I'd never use it on anyone else.  I can't be myself though.  I can't be anyone.  I'm an imitation.  I'm a counterfeit representation.  No one here knows me because I don't want to admit to who I am.  I don't want to be myself because when I try it just comes out as trying to get something else.  The things that I say seem to be self-exploitation or attention seeking.  I'm not comfortable with myself and I despise comfortability.  I'm a thousand arrows pointed in different directions as the infinitesimal wheel of time rolls down the rocky stream.

Abandon the broken glass and you'll find me.

I want you to remember me.  Will you hold me?

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