Dust in My Throat; Barbs in My Heart
I know that I could love you
With the passion of a thousand poets
But I keep it all to myself
I would paint you a thousand pictures
Perfect and beautiful
To capture every part of you
I would write you a thousand love songs
Romantic and pure
To let you know you are loved
But all of my words turn to dust
Catching in my throat
And keeping the words from you
So I hold it all in,
Knowing that the joy of your presence
Is better than the pain of your denial
But my love is unrequited
Misplaced and hurting
Poisoning everything between us
Because you cannot do the same
I will always love you more
Than you will ever like me
One thing I have realized lately is that while I do not bond easily with people, the bonds I do develop are very deep. I don’t get into friendships (or more) easily, but when I do I go all the way in. So when I develop a crush, it is very strong. Thus, if it has to end, it is very painful. I have to dig out a very deep and sensitive tendril that burrowed deep into my heart and there is nothing but pain in it. After a while, the majority of it is out and I’m just left trying to excise the little bits that shot off from the main tendril and dug in deeper than the rest. Sometimes they’ll wriggle and painfully let me know they’re still there. Other times, I’ll come across one and see its atrophy and remove it painlessly.
But, no matter how hard I try, each and every one of them left at least a single barb in there that I can’t get at. It’s in the deepest parts of my heart. The section I can’t cut into without destroying intrinsic parts of myself. So, they’ll always be there; occasionally reminding me of each of your faces, your smiles, and your names. Because no matter how much I hurt afterwards, I did love you for a time and I cannot forget that.
Writing to You: Ghosts of What Never Was
Do you ever spare a thought,
For the one you forgot,
Your misbegot?
Do I cross your mind,
With a thought unkind,
Or am I left behind?
But I know I do not,
For in everything I sought,
I knew it was all for naught.
Because I can see,
That it’s not me,
And we will never be.
No matter what I do,
Nor how much good I sew,
It is not enough for you.
I want to stop writing to you, or you, or even you. It’s pathetic at this point. There’s nothing but pain and sadness in the words I can give to you, for that is all you’ve given me.
I want to write to Her. I know there is something happy to write about there. Even if she turns out to be you, there will be a period of happy things to write. I expect to die alone, so I very much look forward to those brief times when you are Her, even though I die each time She becomes you.
I Just Wanted to Say
The words are on my tongue,
But they cannot pass my lips.
I try to speak my peace,
But my brain says cease.
I only wish to express,
The things I cannot confess.
How I burn for you,
Or how I love the things you do.
A feeling started too young,
And dreams of things undone.
I kept you away where I could see,
Hoping one day you and I could be.
Now that day has come,
And I can’t get it begun.
So I bide my time again,
And wish for a time unseen.
Happy Birthday, Motherfucker!: Facing Fears and Gaining Hope
I turn 27 today. I’m not sure how I feel about that.
I’ve typed about 8 different blogs out so far. I really don’t know how to shape this one. I already did an end of year ‘What Happened in My Life’ post, so that’s out. Yes, it makes more sense to do on my birthday, but I already did it so I’ll skip it now.
Getting older always reminds me of my fears. I’ve worked on some, but most are still there. I’m no longer terrified of leaving my house, but I still have issues in social situations. I put myself out there and fell for someone again, and while that did blow up in my face, it didn’t drive me as deep and dark as it has in the past.
I don’t write about it much anymore, but my fear of dying alone has never left me, I just don’t focus on it as much anymore. I don’t always have time. But, on the day when I am definitively older – to the point of increasing the number that is stated when asked my age – it is hard to ignore this particular fear. It will never leave me until I have proof of other outcomes. I had always known I would have sex at least once, so that didn’t do a single thing to change my fears. If anything, it cemented them. Yes, someone was willing to have sex with me, but she didn’t want anything to do with me in the ways that I need. She wanted friendship and I do not need friends. At least, not from someone I want to know in a more intimate way. I’ve got a lot of friends, but there is nobody in this world that I am aware of that wants anything more from me. And knowing that hurts. It hurts so fucking much.
I wish this fear would go away, but I cannot shake it. It has been with me longer than I can remember. I want to be done with it, but I don’t know how to excise it. I can ignore it most days, but it is always there on some level.
I don’t know where I was/am going with this. In spite of all that I wrote above, this year has been good to me. Yes, I got fired and I was broken hearted, but I’ve been working on a lot of stuff and getting myself right for once. In all, I was happy this year. I haven’t been able to say that in a long time. I’m still pretty fucked up, but it doesn’t seem as bad as it was before.
I don’t fucking know. So much for an awesome birthday post. Instead, I bawled my eyes out and lost my way in the middle. I’m such a mess. haha At least now, when I laugh at that, it’s in a joking ‘oh, you!’ kind of way rather than a sardonic ‘You stupid little fuck up’ kind of way. I’m still not where I want to be, but I’m working on it.
26 was for working on things and getting past stuff. I started a lot of things last year, I hope to see them start paying off during 27. I have hope that 27 will be a good year. I don’t think it will be the one I am hoping for, but I think it will lead to it. I’ll not find what I am looking for just yet, but I think by the end of it I will be closer to finding it. 26 was good, but 27 will be better.
Music Will Not Turn Me Away
It’s a bit fucked up how excited I get when my favorite bands have new albums out and I get to listen to them. Right now, I’m listening to How I learned to Stop Giving a Shit and Love Mindless Self Indulgence by MSI and it’s better than the first time I had sex. I’m pretty sure this is what love feels like. My pulse is racing, my face is flush, there’s a grin on my face that won’t leave, and I want nothing more than to spend all of my time with it. I am excited about all of the twists and turns that the music will provide in its playing. And it will change every time I listen to it. It will grow and I will love it more, even if it doesn’t excite me as much as it used to. Eventually, it will be comfortable and I will listen to it until I know everything about it, but I will always find new things in it. Even if I move onto other things, I will always be able to return to it and enjoy it and love it again.
I suppose none of that is fucked up. What’s fucked up is that I have had more meaningful relationships with albums than I have ever had with a woman. Music has never hurt me the way that they have. It has never told me it just wanted to be friends, that I was too weird, that it just wasn’t interested. Music has provided me more emotional support as well. It has helped me through every heartache and painful moment. Music has never left me either.
What the fuck is wrong with me?
Alternatively: Why can’t I find someone that won’t hurt me?
forgotn 