summer’s coming (but i forgot about this)
it’s not that it’s important or some sort of defining moment.
people always seem to want those
but can’t they see
definitions are useless half the time anyway.
so it wasn’t absolution, just an eight year old
holding my arm in her tiny hands
what are all those lines?
what are all those scars?
you see, in winter those traitorous marks
blend in with the white skin around them.
when something turns invisible
do they disappear?
well at least i know they did for everyone around me.
they stand out like sentries; lined up and ready to fight the dark
but how are you supposed to find the words
to tell that to a child?
how are you supposed to say
i carved them into myself so i knew i was alive?
you don’t. you bend down. you smile.
you tell them: i was sick for a long time
but look, aren’t they getting better?
and you try to ignore the fact that you aren’t
getting better at all.
my head is empty.
my head is full.
my head is somewhere in between and
it’s not right for us
to give time and dimension to something
she forgets about gravity
when she holds her coffee
when the boiling water slides down
she ignores gravity
as she dances
but can never quite get
the blood stains
out of her pointe shoes.
she falls into gravity
on lonely nights
because she dreams the black of her coffee
is the black of space.
Death can’t get a handle on
all this beauty
inside of me.
The thing is, you’ve always thrown yourself into these situations. Never wanted a drop of something that you could drown yourself in. And now? Well now you don’t know how to pace yourself. Don’t know how to breathe while your insides hunger for something they don’t even know they can have. It’s like wanting a drug, like wanting water, like a song not leaving your head until it infects everything you think about. And still. And still you want to drown in it. You would too.
You would throw yourself under just to feel that bliss, that mind-numbing sensation and gosh, just to feel that high. You would dive in, not knowing how to swim, without even thinking of her and sure, you might manage to pull yourself out but. It’s no way to live. Haven’t you learned that yet?
There is a way to do this, a way to think about her and not drown. A way to be with her and not drown and if you could just stop your brain for one second, just stop every second from feeling like a lifetime then, well it may work. But you’ve never known anything but that complete immersion and well. Right now it doesn’t seem like a bad way to go.
I made a coffee at 5pm;
climbed over furniture so I didn’t have to deal with
all the things I couldn’t face.
This is how we live.
This is how we live.
A stab in the dark where
we think we know time better than
he knows us.
Those kilometres and the red lights/ I was always looking left and right/ Oh, but I’m always crashing/ in the same car
(this was a prompt from way back when i was doing a ficathon but i forgot to post it. here it is, in its kind of shitty glory. britta/jeff)
there’s this thing about you that no one knows. well, maybe people would know if they cared to look, cared enough to actually sit down and peel you back, layer by layer. Jeff knows more than most, probably; how he looked down at you in that ladies change room and called you crazy. maybe you are, maybe this amount of self-sabotage isn’t normal, maybe you should stop working so hard to screw yourself over.
you want to, or at least a part of you wants to, but you’ve never known how to let that part actually command your brain or your actions or your emotions and so you wind up in bed with Jeff Winger once again. this is what you do: you take the pieces of yourself that are starting to work well, are starting to be normal, and you destroy them. it’s not healthy and it’s not smart but it is what’s kept you alive since you were young, kept you from never quite achieving your dreams.
it’s okay. dreams are overrated.
if you look at it as a skill maybe you can survive better. write it on your resume, tattoo it on your ass, yell it in peoples’ faces so you can’t do any more damage than that. say “i keep screwing myself over because i can’t let myself be happy”. it seems scarily simple when you say it like that, scarily fixable and that’s the problem. you can’t deal with ‘fixable’, it’s too close to ‘happy’ and really, that’s what you’re running from in the first place.
maybe if you keep going at it, something will blow up. it’s like you’re setting mines around your bed, burying them under the covers and laying still each night. you are going to run out of room though, if you keep piling them on and as Jeff pushes you onto your bed roughly, you imagine them all going off at once. the detonation feels beautiful, feels horrible, feels though that maybe once they’re all gone, you’re going to have to let yourself be happy.
later, when Jeff is snoring and taking up too much room, you take all of those mines and bury them in your chest.
it’s not any safer; people crush you all the time, but you think that if you’re torn limb from limb, people won’t expect you to be happy.