a daydream spillsyou'd think it would get easier.
you'd think, with every passing day the usual sting would lessen, just a little bit.
muted, turned down like volume control.
and strangely enough it doesn't.
two years and that volume hasn't gone down one notch.
christmas rolls around again, birthdays.
and still it thuds away, a needle in the back of the brain.
nuclear family blew up
and we all flew through the air, in different directions.
our Chernobyl is alive with the glory of love.
this imitation of family values is too bright to be real.
too highly polished, too obvious
to put these cancer patients to sleep.
this doesn't need a titleso i wrote you down, filed you, put you in a folder in the back of the drawer.
i wrote down everything i knew about you, which is everything in essence.
i wrote you both down, you'll always be together now.
and then i set you on fire, paper you of course.
i struck a whole box of matches and watched you burn, curling up at the edges-trying to get away.
on the floor, paper you, twirling up at the edges.
as if praying to the stars to save you.
and then the rain came.
and put you out, so i guess that prayer worked.
even in the light and heat and raw anger of fire you survived.
and proved even Plato wrong.
so you turned to mush, sizzling paper and escaping ash, caught in tailspins on the wind.
floating away, the both of you out of reach.
and it didn't ache one bit.
in spite of languagewriters are just cowards.
what sort of man can't say what he means but can capture his thoughts so perfectly on paper?
those who can't do, teach.
those who can't speak, write.
what sort of person prefers a pen between his fingers over a woman in his bed?
writers will always be doomed never to live life, only to write about it.
they aren't participants, they are the commentators.
so you go off and youll fall in love
and Ill write my bitterness out on my paper and Ill talk about how you never wanted me
and my pages will be filled with every emotion I ever felt, the ones youll never see.
all these thoughts will come bubbling out to live on paper, for my eyes only.
Ill never let you see them, Id be letting you too far in.
I am too vulnerable, my writing is my protection - but paper just goes up in flames.
after darkwe are so fragile and breakable so why throw ourselves from such great heights?
my mouth was kept shut under lock and key and i couldn't warn you about how much trouble i was and whether i was worth it.
perfection was never coveted, i wanted to memorise the rise and fall of your breath as you slept - to bask in those moments and wish you were conscious enough to love me for doing so.
we keep ripping up these old wounds, forgetting scar tissue was built to last.
all the while i dangled up here, a puppet watching over life as it played out on stage below me.
and steadily, more and more each day my toes got a little higher off the ground.
and by the end the days stopped joining together, in the end they all ended up isolated, fragmented.
reactions were all just so impulsive, split second decisions of whether to flee or fight.
i chose to flee, i trust my reactions.
i trust that gnawing voice in my belly that lets me know when i failed at the first hurdle.
oh didn't you know you were just a
you'll miss me when i'm goneyou shone so bright that night
you wax and wane, come up for air and go then up and leave me for your self contained rants.
you change your mind too often
i can't keep up.
i was stupid to think i was number one
you never had a soulmate
you had a hundred servants.
damn you for loving me
damn me for believing it.
this is not worth reading.my teacher used to say that she kept the TV on at all times to block out the silence.
the noise and bangs and explosions and insomnia shine would make you forget you were alone.
we don't need TVs, there is no complete silence.
there's still the noise of sugar in your cup, breathing, the living sounds of machinery.
blood pumping in your ears, there's still noise.
3 cups of coffee and counting.
a boy once told me that the world is not as complicated as i think it is. he was wrong.
everything is complicated. chemistry is complicated. maths is complicated. love is complicated. social interaction is complicated.
'my behaviour in social situations can be described as a low level panic attack.'
being a bit rude is a psychological symptom.
can't we just be bad tempered?
he just underestimates it.
5 cups of coffee and counting.
an ex said I was the best thing that ever happened to him.
he was wrong as well.
there are friendships that we think will never end and then one day the