I'm not dead, let me out.

I was shaken at the sight of you. I was in awe of the way your muscles worked with one another, the apathetic look on your face, the way the shirt fit your form. I was jealous of the rings on your fingers for touching your hands, the clothes on your back for touching your skin, of all of your enemies for being given the opportunity to know you well ( Read more... )

I find a guilty, sick pleasure in reviewing the past, over and over again, comparing and contrasting all that has come to be. I parade him like a trophy, yet all guilt is overridden by the prize of it all.

I'm not sure what the trouble was that started all of this. The reasons have all run away but the feeling never did. It's not something I would recommend, but it is one way to live. Because what is simple in the moonlight in the morning never is.

At 17 I was esctatic. I wanted it all. The good, the bad. The image of perfectly propotional love. I remember kissing his lips in the August drizzle, staring down at the city below, and I felt cool, accepted, and romanticized. I ran to my best friend. It was the epitome of teenage dopiamine ( Read more... )

I am free, I am sick, I want to hold on.

This is a battle I've picked and a battle I've lost.

It seems like each writer has their own vice. I suppose pills have become mine. I am on the brink of making it or breaking it. Who would have guessed?

I miss him more than words can describe. There is an ache. I think I'm starting to love him.

“Yes, my consuming desire is to mingle with road crews, sailors and soldiers, barroom regulars-to be a part of a scene, anonymous, listening, recording-all this is spoiled by the fact that I am a girl, a female always supposedly in danger of assault and battery. My consuming interest in men and their lives is often misconstrued as a desire to ( Read more... )

I'm still banking on the idea that one day I'll have it all figured out.