There are times where I think back and have memories from my childhood but I can’t remember if its a dream or if its reality. Then there are times that I think I’m lying about something and a few weeks later I come to find out that what I was saying was completely true. My entire life is disconnected, like I’ve somehow managed to unplug myself from what I thought to be who I was and now I’m looking and feeling everything through a glass screen. I don’t feel numb, but I also don’t feel alive. I feel inhumane. Fake. I look at myself and I don’t recognize my own skin. I covered it in scars so that maybe it would help me know that I am in fact real, and I am capable of feeling things, but it didn’t work. All it did was create some warped concept that my scars are a part of me and that I need them to be myself, but at the same time I want to rip off my skin layer by layer and start completely fresh. I wish I could have random childhood accident scars, or surgery scars, something with a story to tell behind it. Funny or life changing. But the story of how I freaked out because I thought I was in love and tried to cut myself open isn’t something you want to tell your friends, or something they’d want to hear at the dinner table. I remember when I told you that I’m not the type of person someone falls in love with and you told me I was wrong but I warned you that this would happen and I warned myself and yet here we are. I don’t think you’ll ever love me again if you ever even did.
My eyes get heavy with the regret of not saying the right thing a year ago when you asked me if I believed in love.
Confusing reality with the lies I tell others.
My day-dreams are mere memories yet I fail to know if I can consider it a flashback if they don’t come in images in my head.
Instead I’m taken aback with feelings in my hands and feet that have become almost comforting because they remind me that I’m me again.
They soon lead to panic attacks and bloody arms and hands.
Soon the loneliness I once had forgotten crawled back into my skin and I didn’t even know it was myself who had let it back in.
Blaming everyone around me then avoiding the truth of the matter, which was that I am at fault.
This loneliness began planting itself into me, growing roots and hooking to my bones.
No pesticides or chemicals could rip these away this time.
In a perfect world people would want me
like they want warmth in the last few weeks of winter.
But why is it that I’m so afraid of my own thoughts?
I used to take away the pain by blowing out smoke
exhaling my suicidal tendencies,
I called it “self-medication”
and in the process ruined my wrists
my mindset was just to get as fucked up as my body could handle.
You never realize that you so much more delicate than its seems
but then I broke and finally I listened when my friends spoke
telling me the things I said to myself were lies.
I was overly medicating myself for a self diagnosed disease.
It was as if I were a voodoo doll and every cut carved into my skin
was also craving into him
if not physically but emotionally
I cannot seem to figure out what of those two is worst.
This sickness I imagined is not only a sickness of my mind
but it is as if my body has this thirst for self destruction
and in some way it’s just becoming a way of reconstruction.
There are so many different types of touch, from the most pure and innocent holding of someones hand, to throwing your lover down on a bed and touching them in every possible way other than innocent or pure. Some touches can mean nothing. But is it the touch or the person? Running the tips of your fingers up and down the person you loves back, versus doing that to just any friend who happens to be near you, its different. It’s the feeling behind the touch. It’s the intention of the touch. Even if you aren’t necessarily aware of what your intentions are just yet. Touches like kisses, they can mean nothing or everything. If you kiss somebody out of complete boredom, or a dare, it’s quite possible that kiss will be awkward sloppy and full of regret. Kiss someone who you swear you are in love with and your mind will be focusing on so much more than the kiss itself that no matter how sloppy or awkward it is the last thing that would come to your mind is regret. You’ll think of that for days, months, weeks, every kiss feels like the first. But what about unwanted touches? The guy who stood behind you at a concert and groped you because he was too drunk to take a second and realize just how disgusting he was being, not taking no for an answer, would that mean nothing or everything? Is that in between the two, whereas that surely won’t meant nothing it can’t mean everything to you. At the same time you can’t spend all your time trying to categorize every touch so specifically, or even at all.
When I was little I knew a couple named “Heaven” and “Home”
I remember the day
Home asked my brother
where he’d gotten the bruises and a broken hand from
He said, “I fell”
I’d never seen a grown man cry so hard in my life
Heaven once asked why,
After almost never shutting up,
I stopped talking
I said nothing
As nothing needed to be said
She kissed my forehead
and told me she loved me
Home isn’t always where you live
For my brother, Home lived down the street
And Home taught him how to drive
For me, home was Heaven
Heaven wasn’t where God was
And heaven wasn’t where you’d go if you died
“I love you”
more than my own mother did
Heaven was where I went when
my dad abandoned my family for
Sometimes you never really have a home
You have to find it in the people who you never thought would be so important
I want to listen to you talk about yourself for hours, I want to hear about all the things you hate. I want you to talk about all the times you’ve been hurt. I want to hold you while you cry because of some repressed memory, I want to kiss you while you smile and laugh because of something happy. I want to know all the terrible things you’ve done, every mistake you’ve made and every lie you’ve told. I want you to know that I’ll always make sure I’m there, I want you to know I’m always there to hold and be held. I want to know your favorite words, sounds, songs, movies, people. Your favorite lies you’ve told, or been told. All the times you’ve gotten butterflies, and all the times you’ve felt like your heart was being ripped out of your chest. I want to know you. Know every little thing about you no matter how terrible you think the things you’re telling me are. Because I want you to know that no matter what you tell me I’ll always think you’re the most beautiful person I’ve ever met. I want to spend so much time with you that you run out of things to tell me, I want to be there to hear to lies you tell and are told. I want to see the mistakes you make, and I want to hold you while you cry because of something that in a few years time will be just another lost memory. I want to see you at your happiest and I want to be there for you when you are at your worst. I know im young and I know these things hardly last, and maybe someday you won’t want me in your life anymore and maybe someday things will end. Maybe someday we’ll go our separate ways and soon after that you’ll forget the sound of my voice and the feeling you felt when we kissed. But I want you to know that no matter how far you are from me and no matter how many years pass I don’t think I’ll ever forget how much you mean to me.