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.
Symptoms of Drowning
tony & ziva
oh you’re in my veins
and i cannot get you out.
You feel like you’ve been cut in half and it’s definitely because you lost your partner. You’ve worked with other agents, and you and McGee have things pretty tight but she was your partner, your better half, the one you knew had her right hand on her gun if your left was tied up. That’s why you feel cut in half―purely professional reasons. It’s why you feel empty; a house left abandoned to grow old and derelict. It’s that your partner isn’t there with you, isn’t next to you calling you an idiot and cleaning her weapon. It has nothing to do with the fact that you are irrevocably in love with her. If you find yourself gazing longingly at her desk, ignore it. It’s a symptom of the times, has nothing to do with the necklace in your top drawer.
You exist, you think. I exist, you think. You have no way to prove either but you get over it. You always get over things like this.
You have a form, you think. I have a form, you think. We both ignore the uncertainty of this and place too much importance in them. Eventually, you begin to look like you, and I begin to look like me, you think.
You think, you think. I think, you think. You have no proof but you forgive the universe for that. You think of holding someone in your arms and it might even be me.
There’s something inside you, you think. A cancer or piece that doesn’t fit like all the others. You don’t have proof of this wrongness but you have no proof of me either. Everyone treats you the same regardless; you keep living, you think.
You see me, you think, or someone who looks like me and fits well enough in the space of yourself you didn’t know you had.
You love me, you think. I love you, you think. There is no proof but with love there never is. You forgive the universe this and love fully.
Time passes, you think, and we drift apart. It’s no ones fault, you think, just how we matured, how we aged, how time passed beneath us.
Time exists, you know, because you saw its effect on a part of yourself you had written off. You feel pain, you know, because only time helps it to fade.
I was good for you, you think, as if our paths are over and done with, as if time and love were linear, as if you could make sense of this all.
You feel, you think, so you must exist, you think. I was there for you, then I wasn’t, so I must exist, you think.
You close your eyes and rest, or so you think, and dream as if it’s any different to living. You see me in your dream but think I’m not real. You have no proof of this but you have never had proof before so you follow the same conclusions you’ve always made and let yourself kiss my lips like no time has passed.
It hasn’t, I think.
You feel things stirring in your body something. No, you feel your body stirring, shifting atoms deep inside you like they’re trying to tell you something. You listen but only feel an ache for things you have no words for. You shift and roll and change your outside to try and fit with this new inside of yours.
It doesn’t work. You can feel every atom in you shaking and calling out like they’re trying to prove they are not just a part of something bigger, like they are not just a part of you.
They aren’t, you know. Each atom is a world unto itself—is a high speed collision waiting to happen. You cannot begin to understand the potential for destruction you have inside you; cannot begin to feel the potential for greatness.
They sing still; calling out to each corner of the universe where they once came from. Shake off the dirt you wearily trudge inside and instead feel the stardust you once were.
Ache now, and try to make your outside match your insides. Ache now, and try to picture space in the blackness of your mind and know you are not even close.
Ache now, ache then, ache soon. They are the same and only the atoms inside you know that. Try to picture time in the black of space and feel it crumble between your fingertips. Your hands are just stars anyway. Your hands are just history and love. Your hands are still just singing for something you can’t hold.
when it’s all said and done
one day i beat a fly to death with a hand towel
and after, could only stand there thinking
“i beat a fly to death with a hand towel”
there is nothing beautiful or majestic about us
because truth be told, i heard buzzing and then,
and then well, i didn’t
we can’t sink to the ground over every death
or else we would never get up but
i didn’t recognise myself in the way i wielded
that terrycloth weapon and that’s what sent me
sprawling, tiles scraping my knees.
the fly still lays at the bottom of the bathtub
because i am too afraid to touch the
product of my destruction
this isn’t volcano day
this isn’t the fall of rome
this is me
beating something to death.
i never wanted the body
people told me
they hated me for.
(never liked the person
people told me
to live for.)
I wish I could show you my life so far
in tea and coffee drinks.
How those months were endless dark coffee,
drunk too fast and too strong;
were mint and camomile tea when I was home
to make it.
I wish you would see all those coffees I let go cold
and reassure me I really existed,
I wish you could see the way I drank tea the way my mother made it
because I wouldn’t accept any other comfort.
I wish you would see me now,
wish you could see how I keep reusing the same cup.
One black coffee, one darjeeling with sugar.
Tell me what it means in the end and then
show me what our cups will look like
in our future.