I feel like shit today. Everything pisses me off. If I move the wrong way, I might break down in tears.
i still think you’re a good person. i don’t know why, but i just can’t get myself to believe you’re the jackass my friends are saying you are.
i bet your friends are telling you how much of a jackass i am.
but for whatever reason we’re not good for each other. a few apologetic words over a din of grief are not enough to build back trust, and the slow heal of time and effort doesn’t catch up to each disappointment.
i’ll give the impetus to you. as far as i’m concerned, we’re asleep until you’ve lived a day in years.
It’s better to have nobody, than to have someone who is half there, or doesn’t want to be there.
I’m running afraid because
you can map the trenches of my wars
and speak a fog over optics,
though the sirens tell me
I should be sadder,
angrier for it.
You make windows of my walls,
scratch its panes like wind-blown branches.
You’re under the bed, in the closet.
The old, familiar rubbing in my brain,
thinking to shut up sleep,
seized by your memory clung
to the smell of laundry, wear, and sun.
But what’s the use of battling
or building a home for hiding?
I’m terrified by your knowledge of me,
a gift I gave to you.
It is the gods’ same mistake:
to impart a portion of my heart
to know and, by, to influence,
then betray me for control.
I devoted a hundred thousand words
to the saving of my soul,
to hear back my name’s first sound.
And that is the gods’ cruel hubris:
to give home in a portion of my world
to care and, by, to love,
in hope of a prayer in return.