never mind...it wasn't important anyway

snow in my eyes

i miss him i miss him i miss him i miss him so badly i could scream.

i keep wondering if i'll run into him, if he even remembers me -- of course he bloody doesn't! people don't remember odd little flickers of light that fade away as soon as they sparkle! people remember things that stay, and i know i'm running out of chances, i know, which is why i'm trying so hard to stay this time, to be real, to pretend i can be a real girl. if i pretend hard enough it'll turn into the truth. won't it? it must.

and i miss him.
i should not miss him.
but i do.

i didn't love him.
but maybe i could have, and that's what makes it all the more bitter.

this demon is more powerful than me, and i don't know...i don't know what to do with it. fight it? kowtow to it? flow with it? it seems that whichever option i pick is the wrong one.

i am so...so tired, and...and i miss him, and i miss friends (i want to spend another giggling evening drinking and this time have the courage to dance), and...i know i know i know i'm cutting my fingers on the shattered pieces of, of, whatever this is, trying to put everything back together...but i can't not try! i just, i don't know when to stop trying. when it's no longer trying and just wasting time, money, and other people's patience.

i love my city and i love my people but there must be more than this. there wouldn't be this hollow space in me swelling like a worrisome moon if there wasn't. i knew it, at some point, i knew what it was and i was a living, breathing, real girl.

then i died and i died and i died and i just kept dying until the man with espresso eyes assured me i didn't have to die anymore.
but he fell and i fell and i started to die again.

i always said i was trapped in a gilded cage, but that's only half true. the gilded cage i can slip out of any time. the rusting cage that isn't growing weaker with its decay but instead oddly stronger is the one i can't even imagine the shape of the key for. and it's inside the gilded one. it's a paradox of pain. no, nothing so dramatic and ridiculous as pain, more...more horrified desperation, if anything.

because people forget, hope is not the thing with feathers; it's the thing with talons that dig into the soft flesh, and tear it away to bleed when it decides to leave. i want to know how to make the bastard thing stay.

280219 3:02afternoon
[back]