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
so endless.

she forgets about gravity
when she holds her coffee
but laughs
when the boiling water slides down
her wrist.

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
but sighs
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 wrote this all very quickly.it didn’t want to stay formatted.have a photo.

i wrote this all very quickly.
it didn’t want to stay formatted.
have a photo.

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.

for the birds

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.

a03

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there there.

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.