I just want to be able to write love poems without feeling like a creep.
I just want a place or two or five to put all this longing, all this affection I keep generating that has no path to run down.
The gaping mouth of all my stupid loneliness encompasses everything around me.
It’s so trite it tastes like flat ginger ale, coating the inside of my mouth: I spend a great deal of time in crowded rooms feeling incredibly alone.
Remember: this massive tide of desire that rocks itself within me always, this is not a shackle, this is not a punishment for wanting, this is a way the words can come forth. Dense-packed bricks of feeling press themselves out from under my fingernails, from the corners of my eyes.
The sink and scream of a ravenous heart is what drives me to make my little marks on the world, so I should be thankful for my discontent.
(the horrifying realization that I find myself needlessly alone so many nights because there’s a standing invitation that neither you nor I asked for but there it lays // when did it happen that pretty boys who are nice enough stopped being nice enough // I don’t know what I want but I know I want a lot of things // I should stop not leaving the house until it’s dark out // I should stop having sex dreams about ex-lovers // I feel like I’m going crazy most of the time, and regardless of anything I say or think most of the blame there is mine // I want to sell everything I own and buy a truck but I guess I need a driver’s license first, huh. )
Boys with Peter Pan faces and winter soft sweaters, warm cheek next to my cold one growing flush. My sidewalk rage. My dismissive wave. The thoughts that float on down the street to hold a hand. Lost mornings, messages unanswered, the sickly panic that follows through the days, let me tell you I don’t know how to be a person but I’m trying and I’m trying and I’m trying but I’m too sad to be around strangers but I don’t want to be alone but I’m trying and I’m trying and I’m trying.
(of course the devil was the card I drew today)