nauseous

I’m sick of missing you. I’m sick of being lonely, I’m even more sick of being let down. I’m sick of being put last, I’m sick of hollow promises, I’m sick of waiting around. I’m sick of this, sick of being so miserable.  Most of all, I’m sick that none of this makes you sick. I’m sick of  my mind's consumption with you with when you spend all your time consumed with anyone, anywhere, anything else. I feel fed-up. I feel hurt. I feel angry. I feel sick.

Filled

This is why it hurts the way it hurts. I have too many words in my head; there are too many ways to describe the way I feel. I will never have the luxury of a dull ache. I will always suffer through the intricacy of feeling too much.

like unwanted notes
or failed poems
she has been shredded
bone-white confetti
scattered to the wind
papyrus leaves
an unwanted Autumn
no more scribbles for her pages
just drying, forgotten inkwells
no tape or glue to repair her
she will remain
    ripped
           ripped
                  ripped 

Flitting Eyes

Leading up to
the unwrapping:
an advent of courting,
kisses courteous,
not so ravenous,
flirtatious giggles
and flitting eyes meeting
a switch flicking.

All the magic
of first times...
We may be wounded,
we may be ready.
We maybe kinda shouldn't be
pushing back covers
or shirts over shoulders,
the clothes over bones
in drunk alleys or homes.

my problem

me

an extremely relevant repost from before, you think I would have learned: "Jesus Christ"

Every guy I fall for becomes Jesus Christ within the first 24 hours of our relationship.

I know that this happens, I see it happening, I even feel myself, sometimes, standing at some temporal crossroad, some distinct moment at which I can walk away and keep this all from happening, but I never do.

I always imagine the end, the despair I will suffer when it comes, and it makes any happiness I have in the present seem not merely ephemeral, but doomed. Because the happier I allow myself to be, the more undone I will become later. And it always comes.

I'm so fragile. Sometimes I wish I could walk around with a HANDLE WITH CARE sign on my forehead. Sometimes I wish there was a way to let people know that just because we live in a world without rules, and in a life that is lawless, doesn't mean that it doesn't hurt. Sometimes I think that I was forced to withdraw into depression because it was the only rightful protest I could throw in the face of a world that said it was alright for people to come and go as they please, that there were simply no real obligations left.

I grab at everything, I end up with nothing, and then I feel bereft. I mourn over the loss of something I never even had. I am a sick, sick girl.

Yet Again

I've got a handful of feelings
that have no meaning;
in context, they make no sense,
and are commonly much too extreme
for the situations at hand.

I've got a pocketful of star-crossed lovers
that have long since died out;
my mind keeps them alive,
an army of zombies resurrected
despite my fervent protests.

I've got a heart full of love
that I've been told is misplaced;
I do not have the capacity to hate,
even though I've been slighted
so many times.

Despite these heavy burdens I carry,
despite my breaking back
and buckling knees,
though they say I care too deeply,
I can never ever stop.