This is gonna hurt, heart.

Today, for the smallest, almost inconcievable moment- almost unnoticeable to most humans and the naked eye, ear, nose, mouth, caress, and intake of breath, I wished that I had never met you.

For the tiniest of moments, somewhat considered insignificant as it hardly uttered the sound of you, I wished away something that already had been.

It's incredible how much growing up I have left to do, regardless of how small that pinprick of flickering thought was and how much it begged me to hate every millimeter of what I have come to know of you.

Our spirits painted silhouettes.

Words cannot yet fathom this...

I've got bruises on my feet.

I just want to get this right.

I am just quite uncertain as to how many times I wish to stumble along the way,

as I have discovered that the stumbles have taught me the most.

Some days, I find that a fast forward sorta pace would be a lot more comfortable than this awkward fit between certainty and ambiguity.

"When there is no turning back,

 then we should concern ourselves only with the best way of going forward."

Young and Aspiring.

I thought that I had found the words to encapsulate those moments in which I catch myself hearing the applied numbers to days and drop all moments of now and sacrifice them to the before. But I cannot. I cannot explain how deep this concept of nostalgia sets in when I see photographs of myself in a place where you were not, when I had wished nothing more than your presence intertwined with mine. I cannot help but align the birth of a poet to the birth of you, the death of a poet to the birth of us, or words I struggled to scrawl across paper as I suffocated attempting to breathe in the only air I had remaining. I do not know how to tackle this internal battle between recreating attachments to material things versus appreciating the links that have remained, heldfast over time.

I want to loathe it. I want to rip it apart from the seam of its sticky and feed it into an abyss where I won't ever have to face it again. My stomach cannot stomach the taste, so I wish to leave the digesting to those who stumble upon the words I neglected to address. I had always spoken of a white flag and the height at which I held it for the sake of following you into the dark in a somewhat less blinding fashion. Like maybe, perhaps, possibly, somehow the white from the flag would run just a bit and sink, seep, set into the curves of my knuckles and aid in my fight against the darkness. But the only flag I hold between my fingertips is obnoxiously red, standing tall with little assistance, and creating distance between the words I finally regurgitated from a sickened stomach that you created and the ears that they fell upon.

These words are trite. These words don't elaborate. These words just aren't enough.
I am scraping out my insides until my nailbed aches from the strain, and still I cannot place the clusterfucks of what it is coursing through my being over, over, under, around, down, again, over, because parts of me still tremble under the strain of burying deep. This attempt at unburrowing, followed by speaking, followed by forgetting, is somewhat futile as I am lacking the commitment. I don't want the commitment. I cannot commit. Commit. Quit. Vomit. Words.

I know not how to speak other than this; I know how, though, I am this way.
So I am stamping postcards with my fingerprints and sending them to pieces of past that couldn't afford the thirty two cents if they even tried, because they never tried. I am paper cut. I am broke because thirty two cents per card plus my two cents is a draining sort of thing. So I am broken. I am fighting my fire with yours, and it's contagious as it catches at the corners of anything precious.

My words are precious. They are all I have and as I stand here and stare as they ignite, my limbs fall, lifeless. Between all of these colors and visions and going around and under and over, I am no better than I was before. I know more of the truth and how it trickles from coconut skins onto parched lips and soothes, never satiating, but I am a barely standing thing, moving for the sake of motion and claiming it enough for the day to day.

And I know you know this, and it fucking kills me.

the ocean breathes salty.

As our footsteps found their way across the pavement, the trees were annoyed with us. The way in which our bodies swayed in the wind could not compete with that of the fluttering leaves, but the way our toes found themselves upon air, concrete, air, was an envious feat. We did not know what we had overcome as we braved the forward motion in spite of ourselves, but we did know is that we braved being somewhere.
Somewhere was better than nowhere. The mind above my shoulders told me these things anyway. I have found that the parts that float somewhere between scalp and fingertips lack a grounding device on occassion. The ungraspable form of hydrogen and oxygen that my eyes disappear within is a tedious thing I could do without at times. But most times, I have lost myself here and found that I rather like the refreshing crispness of loss.

the trick is to not move.

Sometimes new eyes are all I need.

Sometimes I really fail at this.

Sometimes my brain is contained by my youthful body and I can't balance the act.

Sometimes I appreciate the world in this light.

[Quote:]

and sometimes others can say things better than i could even possibly attempt to.

everything has changed.

you are so elusive these days...

naked as we came.

I don't know how to make this any better.
It's overwhelming and not good enough.
I am so discontent with way too many things,
and I am still trying to decide if that's more good than bad.

The trees are naked and lonely.

You fascinate me. Some nights I want to rip open your skin and see what you hide from the world. I can expect that it's so much more beautiful than what I have to show, if you could even break through the well rehearsed lines written upon the walls making up who I've become.

Don't expect much from me, because others have taken everything i once carried, shielded by the lining of my circulatory system. What is left won't impress you, darling. I have not what it takes to fathom myself and even if you did, time is not on our side.

"Here am I..."

save your scissors.

I found myself carving your name again today.
It wasn't into another helpless tree, intentionally anyway. I found it escaping my nailbed and digging itself into the soil. I whispered, "rest here, please please..." and held my breath between my teeth because I found that as you poured from between the lines of my lashes, I never really seeped from the division of yours. I never really had a reason to, because that was something I could never give.

You were always sorry for your reasons, and I was always sorry that my feet were never big enough for those shoes others had left at the door.

But, I have found that sometimes walking with skin pressed against earth in the most honest way is much more wonderful than a pace weighed down by the conscience of worn down stitches of leather marked "previously owned."

It's days like these you wish the lion had killed you.

I thought about you again today.
Please leave.
Please.

I see you everywhere...
I've run so far to escape every inch of you, but only found you embedded within great heights.
This subject matter is beginning to wear my mind quite thin. If only my thoughts would be cleansed from my mind as they escaped my lips and fingertips; if only for a moment. But instead, they run laps...much as they say laps do. TheytheyThey.
There was a time when these laps stretched and excercised the muscle curves of my face, but it only wears thin the strength of my interior.
I never really understood why your physical being left, only to leave behind this need to ask your memory away.
There are pages of trees with you written in like a failed attempt at carving you out of my brain.
I can no longer think words, more failed attempts, at cleansing, repairing, and living.
But I am finding again that I am falling short.
Much as everything else about me had, and I am falling hard.
I never really was a fan of this fast and helpless direction toward the pavement, heels over head, head over heels, and silly. And I definitely am not a fan of this familiar dirty concrete against my cheekbone, grazing me quite nicely for the world to see. This sting is lasting, and it's worse than the quick pull of adhesive against the tiny arm hairs around old scabs. It happened so quickly, but there was this small warning before the real seperation; the small pinpricks of hesitation before the real pull occurs...tiny little shocks that tell your nerves something isn't quite right, but the pull occurs nonetheless.

I want to stop writing about you. Even as I write of others that have been since, you are laced within the words. Too many trees are dying because my words don't suffice much as they never have.

Some days, I think it best to remove the part of me that recalls that you ever existed. The burnt kind of images are always the most lasting, as ephemeral as people are. As ephemeral as the sound of words from lips to pretend bone. I think something like the analogy about a burning pheonix belongs here, but my words aren't enough, and nothing has been reborn aside from nostalgia- over and over again.

Gross.

say goodnight and go.

There are days that I wish my words were more than graceful compiliations of letters, shapes, and sounds.
I wish them into being of significance, especially to those that always held words of value to me on their tongues.

I think I wish of silly things at times while others pass along and let go of anchor's past.

I cannot quite decipher why it is that I seem to latch myself down by puzzling over the past and repeatidly attempting to fix it...
because most people can easily not give a shit.

I can't wrap my brain around it, and I wish wish wish that I could.
Because letting go is always easier it seems.

baby, you wouldn't last a minute.

Why do these words always remind me of you?
I loved you so hard back then,
I forgot the sound of my own heartbeat.

This new noise is startling
and I would much rather shut if off
than be reminded that this sound is me.

It's moments like these,
I wish this mental glue would unstick itself
from the things that paint this image of you only I can see.

slowdance on the inside.

Get out of my head.
The pathways connecting within my brain are malfunctioning, I think. You were supposed to be a silly notion. A nothing that was here and then gone. But your serenades fell upon my ears and wandered through my bloodstream for so long that I couldn't even feel you curling around the edges of my cells, rewriting everything I had rehearsed over and over again: nothing. nothing. nothing. breathe.
But I forgot that sometimes in the still of night, people lose patience and disappear...right when you want them there. I forgot that I detached my brain from my circulatory system. As I placed the pieces back together, you were already gone, and I had already remembered how much I forgot how fucking good it was to have you around. Your fingertips cradled the wood and nylon in that perfect way that no one can really replicate, but when they try, you come flooding back.

Everything comes flooding back.
And all I have are cliche and futile attempts at words to bring you back around.
It wasn't supposed to feel at all.
I wasn't supposed to feel at all.

So what the hell is this?

I hear your name too many times, falling from lips of people who know not to bring you around. For some reason, my eyes always fall and I find something better to talk about. I kinda sorta really hate it when our name sticks to the drums of my ears because it's just another way for you to find that rhythm through my body when I least expect it.
It feeds my impulsive tendency hungry fingertips like the most satiating thing they have ever placed their small, articulate, and unnoticed ridges upon as I find the digits that connect me to you.
But, for some strange reason, you are in no way connected to me.
nothing. nothing. nothing.
that's all you were supposed to be as I whispered regret and my walls became crumbling, insignificant, and weak before your feet.

silly, silly brain.

my thoughts were so loud, I couldn't hear my mouth.

Sometimes I walk to class and hesitate between steps, pondering the notion of reversing them and caving to my sometimes impulsive tendencies.

I didn't paint my face today or brush out my locks.
I dug my fingers into themselves and hid them beneath the folds of my jacket and the wind. I considered taking those backward steps and envisioned driving to a cafe nestled along a cloudy seaside. I envisioned spilling my thoughts onto a page to the symphony of crashing waves, gulls, and release.

The daydream of casting those thoughts from my silly brain into the sea under the guise of freedom in a bottle lost iteslf in the wind, and I was glad for my hidden fingertips.

I decided that walking forward was the only rational and responsible thing to do...
that's what they say anyway, isn't it? Those theys with their infinite and unquestionable knowledge are a bit smothering some days. I think they would be better suited for that bottle, the one I set to sea. But I sometimes find it at the bottom of the one I am drinking from. It's a bit discouraging most days.

So I am falling asleep in class, finding it a lot better than reality, but the only thing keeping my eyes alive is the thought of you on those sandy beaches. Not so much without me, but scaling them alongside those who fought against us for so long. But I suppose it only makes sense now that truth has cast its bittersweet net. And so does my decision to keep this forward motion intact and hope for a foresty hideaway out of state, rather than the very place I may find you all over again.

Someday I will catch my breath and forget that it still holds your words like an afterthought.
Someday I will find home in myself and take your place in my ribcage.
But until then, I move for the sake of motion and write words that you'll never read or care about.

wonderful.

here it is.

The mornings like these, where I had set out to do all of the things I needed and not give in to sleep, but sleep took over my body and now I have nothing done, do not make me feel good.

I listen to the songs that say the things I wish I could.
I write your name over and over inside of my head and wish that it would just disappear.
Like a wispy cloud on a summer day, I wish who you were to me would just reshape with the breeze and slowly dissapate.
Not that you would actually be gone forever, because you would come back like nobody's business in the wintertime, much as has happened, but when you returned, I hope the notion of you will be something worth smiling about.
Or something of a nuisance as I set my umbrella on to full guard against the sky and the pounding, repetitive words tap tap tapping against the material used for shields.

But instead, I stand here in the rain, under the sky of stubborn clouds and droplets, and have forgotten my umbrella by the door with my pride.
Your words are reverberating within the confines of my aural system and I want to shake the lonely from me, but I can't when I know that words are just words and what has taken place will leave me where I have placed myself blindly.

It's funny, because I had always told you that the showertime was when my brain was at its best; when it formulated the most wonderful, undisturbed thoughts. So is this downpour against my scalp some sort of irony? If it is, then thank you.

Thank you for bringing out the worst in me.
Thank you for the idea that I am nothing short of absolutely ugly, inside and out.
Thank you for the point that my words are meaningless.
Thank you for creating a coffin of my body; a resting place for who I was a little happy to be.
Thank you for the lies that wrote the best words I could let fall from my fingertips.
Thank you for bringing me across this line of the world that I was terrified of, and leaving me there.
Thank you for everything,
because without it I could never compare happiness when I work myself back over to it in its most honest form.

I still have time to sort out the love from the hate in what has happened, but it's a slow and sometimes reversible process.

Here's to another Monday I wish you were here, but not really.

beginning.

day one.

I am awake way too late, drinking way too much coffee, and arguing within my mind whether or not sleep is a necessity considering the ensuing day.

midterm, due papers, classes that are way too long.

but here is where I think a niche will be found for the ramblings that not even my own brain can sort out, file, and make sense of.

So here you go world...
that does not yet exist in response to this blog.
These are the things that I wish I would have said,
but never got around to.

Or if I am going to be honest,
I never really said them because most people can't be honest with themselves and accept them.

Here goes...