wait for nothing; i’m bait and i’m bluffing

so often i sit and wish and bruise
and i never say anything where i follow through.
it’s sad in a way, though mostly just pathetic, but
i’m sure i’m not the only one coming to terms
with these emotions. is this infection of feelings an epidemic
of the youth? is it spread worldwide? are they feeding us
lies? and sugar-coating casualties in a life of casual truths,
trying on justice like an old, worn suit to see if it fits
the warped body of our worn-out constitution?
i’m sick to my stomach, and it’s more than butterflies. i want to
purge all of my insides and start with a blank slate – though
i fear anger and hate would be the first to scratch
their nails down the board, etch their names into my back.
i feel so old. i never had this feeling of longing for so long that
it made me stop and ponder whether you might have been right
when you pointed fingers and said she doesn’t know what she’s
. and it’s true, i really don’t. i’ve been afforded
the opportunities, but it didn’t feel right. though who’s to say
i don’t really know what i was feeling? maybe i don’t. i do know
that you think you know, and you’re so quick to make assumptions
and judge me by my lies, paint by numbers my life. injustice, injured
by the fallacies in those fables of old. you burn holes in your brain,
drugs alleviate the pain, but if you took it all away
life would never be the same. or would it be? it’s not the way
you would choose to execute the mundane moves that
we all go through, but that’s how life is – you’ve got to take,
you’ve got to give; seek and you shall find
a kinder image to rectify how blind
you’ve been. you can’t call it a sin; i can see through your grin.
this is crazy. i’m going insane, all my questions: inane.
i realize now that i speak very loud (oh, i always did) especially
to those who aren’t there. do i shout to compensate for
how quiet i am when i’m around them? even in their presence i’m
caught mumbling under my breath, playing out conversations
that will never come to pass. and this play goes on forever, however,
is it all only an act? why am i the only person on stage? the lights
blind me; blocking the warmth of my imagined praise from
imaginary fans. i know the roses should smell sweet and the thorns
should draw red blood, blue blood, green blood – sick and
envious, like the leaves and stems of ten thousand roses. dozens
upon dozens, one rose, each rose, the pain of being severed from
the earth and stuck in a vase! a glass cage, a tank, space to view
me from the outside, keeping the beast at bay. and what
for? to keep you safe from me? what have i ever done to hurt you?
or, to keep me safe from you? because you know i’ve got a heart
of glass that would shatter at even the most tender touch? and
maybe this is just a game of cat and mouse. i keep my emotions
locked in a cold metal box. glass is too fragile, they could all
break free, and it would kill me to see them spinning endlessly
on that wheel. i don’t want to look, i don’t want to see. that’s why
i keep my heart under lock and key, but i miss me sometimes. i’ll
swallow all my stories, choke on my tongue
while saying i’m sorry, because my system can’t handle any
more lies. tried and true theories, thick thighs, heavy-set,
pretty hazel eyes. sometimes i wonder what they saw in me. so often
i’d say there’s nothing to look at, but if i close my ears to
the ways of the world i think maybe there’s something there after all.
but i come off as shallow, and though the accusations never reach my
ears, in the back of my mind i can hear you
saying she’s just groping for attention.

i can’t develop a character or describe to you this place without
a back story, my personal history always overshadows anything
i even ever try to say. everything is self-centric, me being a
narcissistic bitch so absorbed in the world i’ve created for myself
to lie and pretend in. i don’t know if i’m real anymore. i’ve become
a character, a cartoon of that girl, drawn with dark lines and
too many shadows and severe lack of dialogue. i feel as flat as
i’ve drawn myself to be. i feel nothing unless i scribble words
on the page. i keep picking at my skin, pealing away layers to see
the colors on the inside. would it all become bright red and bleeding
over my books like the sunset over the sea? or when i reach inside
and tear myself in two will i just find a hole in the paper i was
sketched on? then i’ll have ruined it for us all. i don’t want
to ruin it. i want things to be perfect. unattainable ecstasy like
you see on the movie screen. but all those characters are only
two dimensional. flat on the tv, smooth like the special edition
dvd (much more costly and almost extinct in a days time). no matter
how complex they are written on the script, everyone gets into the
skin of him, bringing something of their own with it, and that is
the something that drives the performance home. but home? that’s not
where i want to be. anywhere but here, some place without familiar
faces. it’s so much easier to miss them all then to see some,
and still pine for those you are not with (can not be with). i want
to taste the air out west and see if it hurts just as much to
breathe. i just want to see if i can breathe at all without
somebody holding my hand. if i fall off a cliff and you don’t reach
out to catch me, then i’ll know success was not far off. if i fall
and catch myself, then i’ll know it will be alright.
i want someone to come home to at night.
but first i need to hold my own when i get into this fight.

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