Maybe it wouldn't be so bad if it wasn't you. If, under all those words and ignored phone calls, I didn't know what you feel like. Bruised. Soft, like the spot on a pepper that no one wants to eat. The meat at the supermarket that's package is pockmarked with little finger indents children who didn't know any better.
You know, we were children once.
Up and down the aisles, stealing handfuls of pick-n-mix and refusing the things that were Good for us. When who was right was dictated by who could yell the LOUDEST.
I don't let you touch me anymore not because I hate you (even if I do hate you) not because I want to be far away (I miss knowing closeness, I do - do you believe that?) not because I'm done.
You're almost always right and I kind of hate that about you almost as much as I hate it when I'm wrong (that's a lot, but you know that too.)
I don't want to have these conversations where you open up the dialogue and I'm always the one closing it with a phone that goes straight to voicemail, an address that keeps changing, an identity that doesn't want you to find it.
Finding people? That's in my job description not yours.
Sometimes I wonder if you want me to find you and I know it's not the same: keeping tabs on your coordinates (making sure you're still breathing) as it would be to just pick up the phone or hop on a plane fall into a dream and say hello, but it is what it is.
What? You thought I would find someone else like you? That I would look to my left and see your replacement-- smiling (yours is so much brighter) laughing (god what I wouldn't do to hear it again) touching (will I ever find someone with hands like yours?) -- doing all the things you thought I tricked you into?
I hate coffee and you have me drinking it just to feel you in my mouth again. You always tasted so bitter.
Why is it so easy to forget that you are a thief just like I am? In your pressed linens and starched polyesters you are a man who steals things with those hands that raze the topography of my body; nothing more than a brush of your knuckles to my flesh and I am set alight.
Its driving me crazy, the thought of (you on me, me on you, above below around within) those answers at the tip of your tongue. You know they're there, I can see it in the way you look at me. Like you know I know, And you're waiting for me to make you say it but
Stop talking for just a minute and listen to what I'm saying. Listen to the words I'm saying, not the words you want to hear.
You're twenty nine and barely alive. There are people up here that love you and all you can do is keep your eyes on the ones who jumped. Is that what I have to do to get your attention? Destroy something before you have a chance to understand it? Believe me boy, I know all about self-destruction and you look like you might just know a thing or two about preservation.
Focus, this is important. Stop watching my lips, I'm not trying to trick you.
What part of I love you didn't you understand? I know the words aren't unfamiliar to you. Perhaps I should say them in a way you would understand; Je t'aime. Eroded by the rain and the soft Parisian sunshine is a date on a tombstone that should read: Here lies his heart, held in her hands.
Are you listening? Darling, did you nod off again?
I'm listening even if I don't really want to. I'm listening to you and I'm listening to the silence I keep responding with whenever you bring this up whenever you (we) get like this which is why you keep asking me if I've fallen asleep.
You have my attention; you have it more than I want to tell you since telling you is the same as breaking a superstition and I've never been very superstitious but there's a first time for everything.
It's a distraction, all of these words I like you, dropped off the side of the highway I want you, shot through window glass out of an abandoned office building I love you, misplaced over and over, met in the train station, met on the gondola not moving fast enough, met in the cider mill outside of a town I think would have been nice to grow up in, met in the dark - - the place I know you best.
(Even if I pretend not to. This used to be convenient. This used to be easy. I think.)
I'm listening even if I don't really want to. I'm listening to you even if I already know what you're going to say.
Can't you understand I have no home? That I've never had one? Now you just expect me to fall into this life that you say you've always wanted always hoped to have.
What would you say if I told you I couldn't ever hope for something like this? That I never allowed hope to enter my thoughts or dreams. I wouldn't allow it to come in and puff them up higher than I can reach when I needed to pull them back down so I'm not left stranded and listless.
What would you say if I told you I couldn't ever hope for someone like you? Because that... that has just never seemed plausible in any sense of the word.
What would you say if I told you I couldn't ever hope for my home to be in someone like you?
And neither is something I ever thought I would have.
And who said you could do that? It was only suppose to be us fucking. Nothing more than that. You weren't suppose to make me feel that this was more than what it should be.
You were inside me and now I can't get you out.
You make wish that I had never let you into any part of me.
..... was this your plan all along?
Or am I just another fuck to you? Another body in the sheets making them moist with sweat and my smell only remaining as long as you keep them on the bed before it is covered up by a wash or another body that isn't mine.
Comments 22
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If, under all those words and ignored phone calls, I didn't know what you feel like.
Bruised.
Soft, like the spot on a pepper that no one wants to eat.
The meat at the supermarket that's package is pockmarked with little finger indents
children who didn't know any better.
You know, we were children once.
Up and down the aisles,
stealing handfuls of pick-n-mix and refusing the things that were
Good for us.
When who was right was dictated by who could yell the
LOUDEST.
You won't let me touch you anymore and it...
Reply
I don't let you touch me anymore
not because I hate you
(even if I do hate you)
not because I want to be far away
(I miss knowing closeness, I do - do you believe that?)
not because I'm done.
You're almost always right and I kind of hate that about you
almost as much as I hate it when I'm wrong
(that's a lot, but you know that too.)
I don't want to have these conversations where
you open up the dialogue and I'm
always the one closing it
with a phone that goes straight to voicemail, an address that keeps changing, an identity that doesn't want you to find it.
Finding people? That's in my job description
not yours.
Sometimes I wonder if you want me to find you
and I know it's not the same:
keeping tabs on your coordinates
(making sure you're still breathing)
as it would be to just pick up the phone
or hop on a plane
fall into a dream
and say hello,
but it is what it is.
I don't let you touch me anymore.
(But sometimes, I think about it.)
Sometimes when you're...
Reply
I think about you.
What? You thought I would find someone else like you?
That I would look to my left and see your replacement--
smiling (yours is so much brighter)
laughing (god what I wouldn't do to hear it again)
touching (will I ever find someone with hands like yours?)
-- doing all the things you thought I tricked you into?
I hate coffee and you have me drinking it
just to feel you in my mouth again.
You always tasted so
bitter.
Why is it so easy to forget that you are a thief
just like I am?
In your pressed linens and starched polyesters
you are a man who steals things
with those hands that raze the topography of my body; nothing more than a brush of your knuckles to my flesh and I am set alight.
Its driving me crazy, the thought of (you on me, me on you,
above
below
around
within) those answers at the tip of your tongue.
You know they're there, I can see it in the way you look at me.
Like you know I know,
And you're waiting for me to make you say it but
I can't...
Reply
Reply
Listen to the words I'm saying, not the words you want to hear.
You're twenty nine and barely alive.
There are people up here that love you
and all you can do is keep your eyes on the ones who jumped.
Is that what I have to do to get your attention?
Destroy something before you have a chance to understand it?
Believe me boy, I know all about self-destruction
and you look like you might just know a thing or two about preservation.
Focus, this is important.
Stop watching my lips, I'm not trying to trick you.
What part of I love you didn't you understand?
I know the words aren't unfamiliar to you.
Perhaps I should say them in a way you would understand;
Je t'aime.
Eroded by the rain and the soft Parisian sunshine
is a date on a tombstone that should read:
Here lies his heart, held in her hands.
Are you listening? Darling, did you nod off again?
Reply
I'm listening to you and I'm listening
to the silence I keep responding with
whenever you bring this up
whenever you (we) get like this
which is why you keep asking me if I've fallen
asleep.
You have my attention; you have it more than I want to tell you
since telling you is the same as breaking a superstition
and I've never been very superstitious but there's
a first time for everything.
It's a distraction, all of these words
I like you, dropped off the side of the highway
I want you, shot through window glass out of an abandoned office building
I love you, misplaced
over and over,
met in the train station, met on the gondola not moving fast enough, met in the cider mill outside of a town I think would have been nice to grow up in, met in the dark -
- the place I know you best.
(Even if I pretend not to.
This used to be convenient.
This used to be easy.
I think.)
I'm listening even if I don't really want to.
I'm listening to you even if I
already know
what you're going to say.
I ( ... )
Reply
I don't understand why you can't understand that.
Can't you understand I have no home?
That I've never had one?
Now you just expect me to fall into this life
that you say you've always wanted
always hoped to have.
What would you say if I told you I couldn't ever hope for something like this?
That I never allowed hope to enter my thoughts
or dreams.
I wouldn't allow it to come in and puff them up higher than I can reach when I
needed to pull them back down so I'm not left
stranded and listless.
What would you say if I told you I couldn't ever hope for someone like you?
Because that... that has just never seemed plausible in any sense
of the word.
What would you say if I told you I couldn't ever hope for my home to be in someone like you?
And neither is something I ever thought I would have.
So, I need some time
to adjust.
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Reply
Reply
Reply
It was only suppose to be us
fucking.
Nothing more than that.
You weren't suppose to make me
feel
that this was more
than what it
should be.
You were inside me
and now I can't get you
out.
You make wish that I had never let you into
any part of
me.
..... was this your plan
all along?
Or am I just another fuck to you?
Another body in the sheets
making them moist with sweat
and my smell only remaining as long as
you keep them on the bed
before it is covered up by a wash
or another body
that isn't
mine.
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