Licking butter fingers
May 23, 2002 @ 5:18 p.m.
I knew you, once.
I've struggled, of late, to find my worth. When the people who are supposed to give you worth decide to take it from you, there's a certain point where you must venture out and find it for yourself.
But the days grow longer, and my search for something to do more tedious, and I find that there's nothing for me that I can truly accept that is just for me. You see, it was made for someone else, and I have captured it, taken the flag, waved it brilliantly, only to find that it's the enemy's, and I have it all wrong.
So the thunder approaches, and overall I've remained quiet, except for those chronic coughs of late. Of course the inhaler tries to cure it, but what of my laugh? It's hoarse now, not often heard, and lonely. My eyes are downcast, and I wish I knew exactly who was going to abandon me next, so I could better prepare for it. The tightropes I've walked with people are worn now, and snapping, and they'll break on me yet. It's better that I tell them all the truth now, it's better that they know I hate empty promises and empty promisers even more, it's better that they know now, so that their hearts don't break when I spit angry vile words upon them.
And the butter that I lick from my fingers does not cover the wounds in my mouth like it should; rather it glazes over them and then soaks in. My heart burns worse than everything else, and I want to go home. A simple equation that I can't solve means I don't know where home is. All of my material possessions in Iowa, all of my half-assed reasons in Indiana. It doesn't matter where I go because I'm not happy in either place. A third option? I laugh at that. Poverty has made it so that I cannot pursue that third option, which is such within my grasp.
I thought perhaps life satisfied those who lived longer in it. Now I see it corrupts them, makes them angry. I'm beginning to feel this anger, this corruption. The demons are beginning their quiet takeover, stretching their thin arms over the shell that used to be my happiness. Fake smiles and few hugs make it seem as though it'll all be all right, when in reality I know that is anything from the truth.
I am a blade of grass, dancing in the wind that is society, and aching to be the bird that can fly above the jetstream. I want to be free, and yet I let so many things hold me down and back and gagged and bound. Bondage has become me. Kyle knew this, the boy who will no longer speak to me. Kyle, the boy who abandoned me, like so many have abandoned me, knew that I had a free soul, if only I could choose to find it. I could never make that choice, I was never strong enough...only now am I beginning to see the options...
But the problem is then you're trapped in freedom, trapped in whimsy, trapped in breathless nights and breathy songs and eyes that gaze upon you without blinking. As much as I care for the melodramatic, I don't want that. I want solidarity, and solitude, and endlessness. I want someone that won't run away like so many have when I say or do or even write the wrong things.
My father left. My father left me. No, you don't understand.
My father. He left.
This was my fault. I am sure of it.
You can try to convince me that it's not, convince me that it shouldn't matter, convince me that it's my own insecurities as a person and a girl that make me feel this way. Don't you suppose I have considered this? Don't you suppose I have been over every option, trying not to blame the man that I care for presently and hate for the past? It was him in the beginning, now it is most people that hold me dear that walk all over me. And those who do not conquer me either do not know me at all or know my truest heart...which is more frightening, I can't tell...
My life has been one of pleasuring others, one of pacification and submission. And I have found that as much as it binds me, I know no other way. It is as much a part of me as my lips or my hips or my blue eyes. I have appeased others because it pleased them, and I have learned that pleasure keeps them here. Pain, and indifference, take them away. And it's always by their own will.
I'm tired of being left, but I'm still more tired of relenting. I want to have a backbone. I want to tell people to fuck off or fuck themselves more often, and honestly mean it, and have them know that I mean it. There are too many people I give in to too often...and it must stop. Because I am dying a little bit right now each day that I live like this, and it will get much worse the longer I prolong it.
I don't know how to fix things. I am still trying my best to do what is expected of me, to paint it out in the gray that makes everything relative in the end. But I find it's more and more difficult each time I paint. One day I would love to say that I am happy where I am in my life, and satisfied with myself. I'm beginning to see that it is a work in progress, not a way of life.
You've all deserted me.
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- - March 22, 2010
always the same - July 01, 2008
b-a-n-a-n-a-s! - December 25, 2006
elementary again - October 29, 2006
I don't like you, but I love you - October 03, 2006