It's not sheer silence, but muddled with ur droning drums. The way u beat at my recoiling, won't engage in falseness with me. Cuz I claimed it as it is, all falseness, all a brass flute making a brass sound, and-- u won't save me. No I didn't need much to be saved, didn't need ur stand up love, ur grimy love, the way u speed off my course like I am heading for a cliff u can't join me off the top of.
Some days I feel wrecked and restless, God himself won't look into my eyes, won't hear the demoralization of my bones. So I read, and write things you could, you will-- never see. I am this girl now, with too much time on her hands, lacking in self-respect and colors and happiness. And not making many sounds.
I am this avalanched person. Literally, I could have crawled thru a million more shadows just to hear u growl at me. Coulda killed myself passionately like in a Shakespeare play to have u hear inside my stoned head, what is the wager? What is the bet? Why haven't I been ur cowgirl yet? Your confidante?
I read novels about older people whose spouses have died. The love, and longing, and grief speak to me. The ways in which I wanted this lifelong shananigan with the spicest soulmate I can find. But I fucked it all up. I am fucked up. I can't control how I feel. I don't even know why I try and bother anymore. I must adore the torture. Something in me must still be 17 and pining more for a crash than a crush.