My chest hurts every single day. Time seems to slow down when my chest hurts. It only happens when time is suspended. When my busy days and nights halt to a stand still that I can’t control. 10 minutes in traffic. Waiting on a text message. Deciding where to eat. Trying to fall asleep. My chest hurts every single day and I pray that I finally cough hard enough to spit up my heart and lungs. I want to scrub them with steel wool and let them soak in hot water for a few minutes. My chest hurts every single day and I feel like I could do so much more. Like I should do so much more. I could do so much more for progress. I should do so much more for innovation. I could inspire. I should motivate. But my chest hurts too much.
There is so much to do and there is so much time to do it. I’ll just wait until tomorrow. Today I am stuck in yesterday. I can’t get over it. I can’t get over old faces. I can’t get over old places. I can’t unsee things that changed my life forever. I can’t unfeel things that changed my life forever. I can’t do anything about something that has already happened. Saying that and believing that are planets from each other. Stuck in a cycle. Left turn. Left turn. Left turn. Left turn. Left turn. Left turn. Finish line. Left turn left turn left turn left turn left turn. Finish line. Left turn. Left turn left turn left turn. Finish line. Stuck in a cycle. Stuck in a loop. Stuck on a track. Nothing changes but the circumstances. It’s the same race over and over. The players change but the game stays the same. Too worried about yesterday to remember today or think about tomorrow. And for some reason yesterday is where I remain trapped. But I’ll deal with it tomorrow.
I hate when people believe in me. The pressure builds. I feel like the air inside of a tire. I feel like the cork in a bottle of champagne. I feel like the president of the United States. I feel like a diamond being formed. I feel like Atlas. I feel like I’m up to bat in the bottom of the 9th with 2 outs, bases loaded, a full count, and a single run away from the World Series title. I feel like I have to take the shot. I feel like I am disarming a live bomb. I feel like I am going to explode at any minute. The more that people believe in you the more at risk for failure you become. Bigger they are harder they fall, right? That risk terrifies me.
I know that everything is out there. That’s why they call it everything. It’s our job as the middle of space, the stars that everything orbits, the solar systems that comprise the universe, to make up everything. We are everything. The only things that exist are the things that are in my mind. Nothing else is real. I haven’t ever had a fake thought in my head and I have never known something that isn’t real.
My mother is always concerned about me. She worries too much, I think. She stays up late at night reading trying to keep her mind from racing with fantasies about my criminal activities and late night shenanigans and drinking and drug use and sex life and every other horror film she can imagine. She thinks that I get too into my head. She is concerned about my reputation. She wants me to be healthy. She tries to keep me out of trouble. I love her but the only way to swim is without a life jacket. Otherwise you’re just floating.
Every 1 bolder is 1 million grains of sand.
I love you. I love you. I love you. I love you.
There are a million pathways and the only ones that I ever go down are covered with all kinds of obstacles. I figure the roadblocks make me smarter. Or they force me to go back the way I came and find a different route. There are a million pathways and the only ones that I ever go down are winding and long or straight and short.
I love you. I love you.
12 am – sleepy, unable to relax. 1 am – sleepy, unable to stop thinking. 2 am – sleepy, stuck thinking about the same scenario over and over. 3 am – sleepy, praying for sleep. 4 am – sleepy, content with not sleeping. 5 am – sleepy, feeling nostalgic and motivated. 6 am – sleepy, feeling accomplished and optimistic. 7 am – sleepy, feeling content. 8 am – sleepy, hungry and in need of fresh air. 9 am – sleepy, wanting to cuddle up under a warm blanket. 10 am – sleepy, retrospective. 11 am – sleepy, uninterested and detached. 12 pm – 12 hours later. 1 pm – asleep. 2 pm – asleep. 3 pm – asleep. 4 pm – in and out of sleep. 5 pm – barely awake, groggy. 6 pm – wide awake, hungry. 7 pm – ready to start the day, comfortable. 8 pm – monotony. 9 pm – monotony. 10 pm – monotony. 11 pm – monotony. 12 am – 12 hours later.
I love you. I love you. I love you.
Sex had become something to be performed out of pity instead of the passionate love I knew before. Watching her love me made me want to shout at her and remind her that boys who smoke too much really are bad news just like her momma warned but its too late for her I want to grab her by the shoulders and shake her until she wakes up out of this nightmare that I’ve trapped her in but its too late for her. I thought apathy was better than love but feeling nothing sort of feels like hell – never ending – like a constant loop. . things aren’t pretty. Nothing is disgusting. I can’t seem to see past your breasts and its like all I can do for you is cum and I wish you loved me as much as you want to love me. But you don’t love me. With my hand around your throat & your screams drowning out the music and the sweat and perfume and cologne mixed in the bed sheets you really just remind me of how much I hate myself. I think I remind you of how much you hate yourself, too.
She told me I was the first person to make her orgasm. She tried a girl friend.
“I just don’t ever cum” she told me
mid stroke / I laid her on her back / looked her in the eye
“I just don’t ever cum” she had told me
mid stroke / mid stroke
Repeating over and over in my head
“I just don’t ever cum”
over / over / over
over / over / over / over over
I’m the first person to make her orgasm she said she tried a girl friend “I just don’t ever cum” she told me
mid stroke / I laid her on her back / looked her up and down
“I just don’t ever cum” she told me
over and over and over and over
What makes me so fucking different I’m not so fucking different you know maybe you just wanted this more than you wanted that
/ I don’t know why /
I am not fucking different I’m not I swear
I love you.