what is the point of talking to people, anyway?

review my wishes for fair weather.

i can't breath, i realize i've said this before.
i can't ever breath.

i used to think that i could escape by walking away.
i would move away. try any number of things to get away from everything.
now i know that it's impossible.
running away only makes escaping harder.
running away only makes it more clear that i can't get away.
only makes it harder to breath, harder to smile, harder in general.

it's as if in the process of running away i get turned around and end up running back.
but it's the last place i want to be.

i don't know how to say this softly, but i'm hurting and afraid and i just want to be able to breath.

last night's torrents.

i know that we can't all be together
and that calls over skype are as close as we can get.
but in a way, i haven't felt closer to you in a while.

last night reminded me of the days
where james blunt and damien rice filled up our playlists.
something we cringe about when admitting to now.
me, you and a boy.
this is how it used to be,
this is what i've been missing.

cross your fingers, please.

threats of castration for crimes you imagine when i miss your call.

i understand that i am asking a lot of you.
i realize that i am being unreasonable.
constantly demanding; you are constantly in demand.
it must be exhausting to be loved this much
and this is not a guilt trip.
it's just the tired truth.
twisted, and laced with unexplainable fear
and also something larger.
pure paranoia.
terror takes over, my actions affected accordingly due to this anxiety.

little porcelain figurines, glass bullets you shoot at the wall.

i want to believe you
and you say that you don't
and that should be enough
and it is.
for the most part.
and i should be enough
and i believe that i am.
for the most part.

but what about the other parts?

young hearts burst open, wounds bleed fresh.

i want to reach out and touch you.
and your skin is warm
and my hands are cold.
only, i don't
because i'm stubborn and
i'm longing for you to pull me closer
hold me
convince me it's okay.
i feel nauseous
my anxiety is overwhelming.
i think i am going to throw up
and cry
and this is never going to end.

i want to be your best friend.
i want to be in your life, again.
differently. finally.

i know i never can, though.

nourishment is temporary.

i always knew i would spend a lot of time alone.
thinking about you is not going to be enough to keep myself busy this year.
i am not going to be satisfied. living life through you.
i need to do something, something safe.
i need to make friends again, occupy my mind.

it feels as if the sand will never completely go away.

like so many other things, traces will always be left.

"this is my day too".

i don't mean to ruin things, and i tried to salvage this.

let's continue to use metaphores.

lose, when i play your game.

my hands are heavy and slow, they are disproportionately large and my fingers are swollen.

my joints are fused, i cannot walk like i once could. my body aches and even standing up is more of a task than i would like to admit.

you bring to me the idea of youth. once, an unthinkable miracle. now, closer and closer to a possibility.

i can fly. i can close my long-lashed eyes, suck in my round tummy, go up on my tip-toes, push off and fly away. i can go anywhere as long as my eyes are closed. but what is the point? i can't see where i am, or have been, or am going. i can only feel the wind rushing through my hair and the flips my stomach does as i weave in and out of moist clouds. i have considered the idea that i am insane.

you ground me, i am nearing confidence of my sanity but i miss the wind and the clouds and the possibility that i am different. special.

i am ill. i have an overactive imagination. i am constantly in a state of paranoia. i imagine everyone is looking at me, talking about me. i am chronically depressed. i have an erratic sleeping pattern; fourteen hours, four hours. i obsessively organize, i have control over some things. i imagine you don't love me, this is a joke. i am the punchline. there is no such thing as too good to be true.

you lock me up, i am safe behind bars. blankets restrict my movement. my body aches too much to move anyway, ever since i stopped flying. but they're making it hard to breath. i push upwards and you push me down, you're stradeling me and holding me into place. i am confident of your love for a second and i try to explain my fears, thinking you will hear them and save me. your destiny is as my salvation. you get upset and i am on top of you. holding you down with all my might. fighting off your fists. this is my story, i am the oppressed. let me tell it.

i am so caught up in my oppression, so caught up in labels and stereotypes and roles. so caught up in my confusion and anxiety that i can barely even see yours. i can barely even see you.

this is a love letter, this is an apology, this is everything i have- for you.

shame and fortune.

what upsets me is the fact that you lied to me about it; more so than the act itself.

i keep trying to convince myself that i am okay with it however i can't help but get a disgusting naseous feeling. it makes me feel dirty and i can't shake the feeling that it means that i'm not good enough. i'm not doing enough. i'm not capable of satisfying you.

it feels like crap.

modest mouse cover band.

"is there something wrong with our friendship?"

if you were a better friend, you wouldn't have to ask that.