Wait, weight, fans, hands, nap time with yellow zigzag crosses in my eyes. Burnt skin, extra skin, birthday dinner, new rock n' roll, nervousness. So many sins and I can't breathe without them (or with them either). It makes me start, stop, sneak, wonder.
I asked for definite plans to no avail - more guardedness, more one-ended phone calls and tales of time rather spent alone. Leave me alone. Stomach empty, leave my lungs dry, water bottle filled and CD cases packed full of secrets in verse form because even poetry and music feel way too fucking crushingly honest lately in my bedroom still littered with liquor boxes and lies and ink-stained pillowcases.
What about what studies have shown and movie metaphors and sun-soaked Mojave wrecking yards that I see as beautiful alone? What about the dates alone and daytime promised to be spent together and always postponed? What about the hours of talking words and showing yearbooks? Old scars and dents on my calves haven't healed that fast, and neither has my head (it probably never will).
The laughing voices of men in button-up shirts outside my window are making me fucking insane, feel fucking insane, don't feel anything or just feel like my insides are trying to get outside, are moving too fast, are not letting me sleep. Text message wake-up calls in place of broken alarms shut off by fingers of faded black polish after drenching heat bike rides, story time, novel lies, search words, slutty girls.
And all I can think about is a Sunday night of hair bows with dark roots and all I can feel is wheels stuck in reverse upon streetcar tracks and pedestrian pushes on hospital avenues.
Weird, strange, fantastic fucking week I've been having...or was that already evident?