I hate when I remember how much I loathe myself. 

I think there's a giant anchor tethered to my neck, light enough to let me move about in miniscule circles while it gags and rends my throat. I cannot figure out if I want to move forward or backward, but I know that sinking is too comfortable to enjoy. Stability is the best way to become unsatisfied. You know that; you think constantly of then and ( Read more... )

Lord ( Read more... )

I feel like I've lost all control.

Her brother found it endearing to reminisce and rhyme about my prior misfortunes, my anxieties. Jesting things are always needled or barbed, so you pick them up like a gift and let them bounce around in your hand, till your flesh is singed or sliced up to the point of numbness. Then you can adore it ( Read more... )

People you are close to become agitated if you are overtly emotional. You must sustain a façade that says everything is okay, and that you enjoy their company. But you must not ever cling. Feign disinterest. Play constant games as to say you are intrigued, but in a non-committed manner. No one wants to know you forever. You're nameless, replaceable ( Read more... )

I wish that my own passions were enough for me. I waiver; I always want someone there to watch, approve or challenge me. I thrive on intimacy. I've had it once, and now I have it in ghost form; I can watch the corporeal, the vessel that appeals to my memories (memories never suffice). I have these moments of such intense joy, they are such empty ( Read more... )

My mood is moving like a metronome between an apathetic tranquility and a berserk anxiety. There's this wicked anticipation that I am trying to combat with certitude. The futility of simply saying "I can" is enhanced by the heavy wave of miscellaneous debris (the objects and words and people lazing about as obstacles). Certainly, everything is ( Read more... )

I could not get the line "Velcro anvil to her ankles" out of my head last night. Anvils? An anvil. I feel like pluralizing it or adding an article demoralizes the phrase. The anvil, but which? I suppose there's only one. There are a lot ( Read more... )

I am always conflicted by the disdain that wails and wafts like some dead wind throughout my skull; I can't place who it is for, me or them or all of us, but it spins immense turbines to generate a dreaded void, some crushing suction that devours ( Read more... )