a·lone

Journal

When I had Tristan around, I was just as single as I am now. But he made it okay, he made it somehow acceptable to be alone. I wasn’t really alone, anytime I had the place to myself, he came over. Which is shockingly obvious now, riley is at her boy-toy’s house, my land lord has a girl over, and I’m the only one living here who isn’t with someone tonight. And it hurts. Not even just because I’m lonely, but also because I let myself get attached to him, to the way he made me feel. I got comfortable, he was always around when I wanted him to be. Now I’m in this dark room, giggling from the other side of the wall is creeping in. I’m alone. I’m just as alone as I was before, which makes it worse. He gave me this nice facade that I could get comfortable and relax, that he would be there. It’s over and I don’t know why I’m still talking to him because I know we won’t see each other again and it fucking hurts. I didn’t want to lose that comfort. I didn’t want to lose him. I was going to anyway when I moved, but this came out of nowhere. It was hard enough when he was in the accident and I thought he was hurt, but now I’ve actually lost him. But what did I really lose? Is it that comfort that I miss? The fact that someone would hold me if I asked them to? Because I have lost all of that and it’s very real, but I also miss having him around because he could actually manage to make me laugh. He could make me relax. I hadn’t relaxed in fucking years. I let my guard down and I got hurt.

After the way I had been treated by Leo, being stood up anytime I bothered to try and make plans, to have someone go above and beyond when it came to treating me right was more than enough. He fucking held my hand all night when I was drunk and high off my ass and having some bad reactions to some shit, he was there trying to take care of me. You know, I have had pneumonia and my fucking family didn’t treat me that well. He was laying on the floor, holding my hand while I was on the sofa. It couldn’t have been comfortable. It was an act of kindness that inflicted mild discomfort on him for a long period of time. He could have just let go after ten minutes and I would have been sad but I wouldn’t have held it against him. Instead this guy held my hand for hours while I was sick from all the shit I had, while on the floor. He wasn’t even fucked up. He was just being nice. Not to mention the one date we actually went on, I feel bad for giving him shit about not knowing how to tip on a card now – and I should have been more grateful, but at the time I figured he was just gonna try to get in my pants and dip like every other goddamn guy out there. He paid for dinner, kissed me, and held my hand. Am I just really easy to impress after the shit I’ve been exposed to? I think he is amazing. He’s kind, forgiving, funny, giving, and not to mention how cute he is?? I just wish I would have known what a good guy he was before. I figured he just wanted to use me.

Advertisements

re·li·a·bil·i·ty

Journal

How did it come to this? I always knew things would end, but I figured it would feel like a lifetime before they actually did. But here I stand. Graduation has come and gone, I only have three weeks before I move, and you’re leaving soon. A little too soon. Cut off before I could honestly explain how I feel. You’ve been so much more to me than just someone I slept with occasionally – I care about you. The way you smell triggers happy neurotransmitters to be fired in my brain – the way you laugh and touch me makes my heart glow. But it’s over. It’s all over and a little too soon. I care about you more than I thought I would. I care about you more than I care about most people. I trust you. You can make me relax and smile, and like, no one can do that. You held my hand all night, and you’ll never understand how much that made me feel. You’ve reminded me that I’m not a callous and angry person, you’ve reminded me that I can care about people. You have seriously impacted my life, and I would be different today if you weren’t in it. I could be my honest self around you, and so few people have genuinely seen her. I want you to know that you meant more to me than someone I slept with, and I’m going to miss the simplicity of turning a movie on and cuddling with you. I’m going to miss being ridiculous with you and allowing myself to relax. I’m going to really miss you when you move.

aim·less

Journal

Everyone I talk to tells me exactly why they don’t like me. I am constantly being told why I am not a good person and then I look at girls like her and I can understand why no one would ever want me. I’m just not a good person. It’s moments like these that I have to really fight not finally killing myself, that I remind myself how many times I didn’t give in to the temptation. But is life worth living if you hate yourself and people around you hate you too?

The sad truth is that no one was around when I would throw away my belongings because I was planning on killing myself and didn’t want other people to have to go through the emotional distress of getting rid of the dead girl’s things. No one was around when I wrote the drafts of my suicide notes. No one was talking to me when I had a knife to my throat, or pills in my hand, or when I tried to drown myself. Nobody ever bothers to genuinely ask how I am. I’m not okay. I haven’t been okay. But I consistently hear from people saying that I’m a waste of their time, that they know why they broke up with me, that I am the worst person they know. It seems like everyone has the time to tell me what’s wrong with me, but no one has the time to care about me.

I feel like that’s a problem of mine. I get constant badgering of why I’m not good, yet no one has ever bothered to love me. Not my parents or my siblings or even my friends. I’m fucking alone. It’s a miracle I’m alive today and nobody realizes how close I have come to dying. Not even just dying. How close I’ve come to killing myself. I feel like I don’t have a place in the world. I feel unwanted.

I don’t need anyone to love me, I’ve proven that just by living, but it would be nice if they did me the decency of not actively trying to upset me.

Let me binge drink in the shower alone. Let me do my fucking job. Let me be the vindictive and self destructive person I am in peace. Let me be alone. I might never be happy, I’ll never be carefree and good, and you’ll never love me.

I know you’ll never love me. I can hardly find it in me to love myself.

Bare Bulbs

Journal

She pulled some old foil from a paper bag filled with trash. The paper bag had been serving as a trash can in her home – by Home, she was living in a glorified garden shed with a single, bare light bulb hanging from the ceiling. She slept on a naked mattress that may have been mistakenly placed there at some point – no framework, no sheets, nothing to give intention. Beetles often would crawl through baseboards, up her walls, and greet her face to face in bed. Foil in hand, she fashioned it into a makeshift spoon – her family back home kept calling to see if they needed anything. She always said no. Ashamed to admit that her single can of beans would be opened with a pocket knife and consumed cold with a spoon made from the old seal of a long forgotten tub of yogurt. Underneath a bare light bulb, in a garden shed, on top of a hill, in a city that reeked of placidity.


His face contorted by anger, screaming something about how ungrateful they were. She hit pause on the moment, collecting herself. Just how many times had she found herself in this place; A man, a mother’s lover, threatening her safety with harsh words and violence? How many more times would she let it happen? Unpause. He grabs a cup and throws it against the kitchen wall in her direction, it was a gift from her grandma. The answer was “no more”. A sister was having convulsions in the corner, nothing had ever filled her with so much rage. No one should treat them like this. Trembling, sobbing, her older sister being enclosed with a hug. No more. No more. He had run from the scene, perhaps to cleanse himself of the murder he had just committed, yet he still yelled. You better fucking leave or I’ll make you regret it. / A threat. / The last threat. / Fucking try me, little bitch. / No response. / Coward. / Her sister’s eyes were glossed over, all but black. A voidness she had never encountered before. Running upstairs, she grabbed the first duffel bag she saw and stuffed it with clothing – she would never come back. She wasn’t sure where she was going, but she would not stay here.

quantify this

Journal

Dim lit streets. Popcorn infested, making pretzels. A cafe, cup of espresso. A university, hundreds miles away. One thing remains. A continuity that exists beyond our control. I’m thinking of you. Given away only by a faint blush of my cheek and a sly smile. Passion radiating off my skin like a warm Moroccan sunset or a crackling fireplace tucked away in a cabin. A Parisian lamp on a street at midnight, a rustic and aged kind of beauty. Unfulfilled excitement of Night, providing the dark mask, promiscuity and lust. Give me only time and I might bloom in front of you like a prize rose, but we have no more time. Cut short. Severed and no other option. Drama and chaos, but I just want a simple love. One. The perfect and beautiful family – fell in love young, met through coincidence, married on a whim but everything felt right – waited five years to have kids, had a healthy and established relationship as a couple. Humble, happy. But there is no time, no future, nothing substantial here except that Moroccan glow emanating. Nothing a scientist could quantify, except in heartbeats per second. I love-

Pare back

Journal

I don’t want to impress or distract. I don’t want frills or parties or many friends. I want satisfaction with myself. I’ve always considered that to be my ultimate goal in life – to be happy being alone. To be able to find complete happiness and satisfaction if I were locked in a room by myself and no contact with others – if I could just exist alone and be content. My minimalist style really plays to that – it brings in light and uses only natural and modest colors to enhance the beauty of a space. Some might call that boring, but I think it just pares back all frivolity that many use to cover up insecurities and faults. In using minimalism, whether in decorating a room or in my closet, the style allows for the room to speak for itself, and for my body to speak for itself. I don’t need gaudy decor or makeup to display my personality. I am neither gaudy or frivolous. I am practical and natural. Something that can be depended on for elegance and quality.

frail·ty

Journal

The cavernous hole inside, swallowing light. Eating away at the life, slowly and surely it will die. Heavy headed, clouds on the mind. Aching for a presence. Missing and mish-mash, gone yet never mine.Ever-looming possibilities, worst is yet to come. This desire is unprofitable – all outcomes end in idle pain. Harboring cool indifference, you’ll never come around – as my weakness, you stand before me. Tender condemnation – forever segmented into a whole by the love I never received.