I am nobody’s fucking fool so stop trying to make me your’s. And I can’t form the words to explain to you how it is that you make me feel (this way, especially) but I’m told you don’t matter anyway. I wanted to make this decision myself. I know that I could believe your every word if only you would just try a little harder or if I listen selectively to what you have to say. Language is funny, that way. Is it lonely in here or is it just me? I was a grain of sand on life’s beach with several billion others until I was scooped up, with you and a select few, to rest at the bottom of someone’s ship-in-a-bottle. Is is lonely……? God damn. Talking down, you’re at the top of the stairs and I feel like a child. Maybe it’s hard to take this seriously. To open your mouth and speak your mind is almost a crime and so you stumble over your words, trying to find the correct thing to say. To not offend, to not frighten or manipulate. To not frighten or be cast aside and left behind. I’d like you all to love me if I could string the right words together. Language is funny, that way. I’ll shame myself into silence before the shit hits the fan. If I form my lips just so, will he kiss them & if I lock the door will he not bother me anymore because it’s hard to go out at night when every pair of eyes is a cold set. Nothing behind them and I always fear rushed, unkind words shouted from car windows. Crawling on my hands and knees, the door sticks in the humidity and had this been a real fire, I’d burn up trying to push it open. Still burned and desperate to fucking get out but the doorknob is hot. Bust out the window, fall two stories and land on broken glass. Say that talking means nothing but your words do have meaning and I’ve practically killed myself to get away. Lost everything, anyway, start fresh but there’s no insurance that covers loneliness.

It’s inexplicable. Like that time we climbed the mountain and, at the top, the stars were no bigger [than they were at the bottom]. And the energy was enough to make us think we could reach out and touch them/reach out and touch each other. But the distance made us feel so fucking small. The days are disappearing; they’re getting shorter. It’s almost September and I guess there’s not much time left to feel like we thought we would, up there. You close your eyes, in a room full of people on a couch in the city. They’re making such beautiful music and you think ‘I thought I’d feel less lonely. If only I could fill up with their sound, but I am a stranger here.’ I read through the entirety of my tumblr last night and five or six pages in, I began to feel very envious of the girl who took those photographs and wrote those entries. She thought life was beautiful, and said so, often. She. I. Whatever. I feel disconnected; I’ve got writer’s block and anyway I’ve stopped taking pictures. All of my rolls of film are half full and I can’t remember what’s on them. I hope these things aren’t the result of finding being alive any less wonderful. I’ve only got to remind myself to open my eyes and look all around me. I’m still in here, I still appreciate things, though somewhat differently, I suppose. I still close my eyes on the highway when the music is blaring and the wind is blowing in my face and I still pretend that I am flying. I still blush when it takes me a full minute to get a joke. I still get turned on by a handsome man reading a good book. Maybe there’s hope for me, yet! “Last night,” she said, “I slept upside down in my bed. I thought that, maybe, if I woke up in a different way, everything would change.” “And did it?” “Does anything ever?” …….?