Ghosts
Alexis made a good point this evening. I'm scaring everyone away.
I've fallen into the perfect trap; a trap that allows me to be hurt in one direction, or hurt in another. It's hard enough to stay standing in this endless battle for someone who cares - someone who can share that unique connection. I'm pitted against my comrads for that feeling of completion - that missing link that holds our brittle beings to that abstract concept called 'love'. It's hard enough to raise our flags in triumph, let alone survive the violence of process.
Now, I have been all but chained - bound and gagged - an open target and a useless opponent. The dark ring that once laid around my finger hangs like a noose around my neck; that ring that once kept my heart in contract to Alexandra. I might as well give up right now - the results are in. I have no place in trying to 'feel' again - I am expected to realize my mistakes and suffer for eternity in return. Thanks for the fucking benefit. I couldn't be more thankful.
Who is plotting these chess moves against me? Who is trying harder than ever to kick the sand in my face and tell me to 'stay down'? I'm sick of not being able to actually fucking live my life because of the ghosts of my past. Whether or not they still haunt me and keep me awake at night, I am expected to tell the same spooky stories over and over again for the tourists to hear (wide-eyed and unaware). I wish these ghosts could lash out in a proper fashion I could only dream of - ghastly screams, the sound of plates and wine glasses shattering against the floor, blood running endlessly down the walls like that famous Stanley Kubrick movie - is this too much to ask? A little stage show for my suffering?
I have just realized my fate. I should've realized all of this awhile ago - wondering why I was never good enough now; getting down on myself for not being able to catch the eye of anyone in interest. It could've made a lot of this easier. It could've made me lose the useless drive I have with dignity. Now I stand cold and alone in the middle of the stage - the audience silent - waiting for the line that was never written let alone memorized. Improv. Do something.
"...I give up."
Exit stage right. Curtain drawn. Silence. My tombstone was written the day she let me go. My epitaph reads loud and clear - 'stay away'. I am not deserving of a hopeful heart; I am simply the ball and chain to faces long gone. That fateful love letter or aging photograph that the few who tried show to their grandkids - "now, he was different".
I feel like crying. And not because I'm alive.
I've fallen into the perfect trap; a trap that allows me to be hurt in one direction, or hurt in another. It's hard enough to stay standing in this endless battle for someone who cares - someone who can share that unique connection. I'm pitted against my comrads for that feeling of completion - that missing link that holds our brittle beings to that abstract concept called 'love'. It's hard enough to raise our flags in triumph, let alone survive the violence of process.
Now, I have been all but chained - bound and gagged - an open target and a useless opponent. The dark ring that once laid around my finger hangs like a noose around my neck; that ring that once kept my heart in contract to Alexandra. I might as well give up right now - the results are in. I have no place in trying to 'feel' again - I am expected to realize my mistakes and suffer for eternity in return. Thanks for the fucking benefit. I couldn't be more thankful.
Who is plotting these chess moves against me? Who is trying harder than ever to kick the sand in my face and tell me to 'stay down'? I'm sick of not being able to actually fucking live my life because of the ghosts of my past. Whether or not they still haunt me and keep me awake at night, I am expected to tell the same spooky stories over and over again for the tourists to hear (wide-eyed and unaware). I wish these ghosts could lash out in a proper fashion I could only dream of - ghastly screams, the sound of plates and wine glasses shattering against the floor, blood running endlessly down the walls like that famous Stanley Kubrick movie - is this too much to ask? A little stage show for my suffering?
I have just realized my fate. I should've realized all of this awhile ago - wondering why I was never good enough now; getting down on myself for not being able to catch the eye of anyone in interest. It could've made a lot of this easier. It could've made me lose the useless drive I have with dignity. Now I stand cold and alone in the middle of the stage - the audience silent - waiting for the line that was never written let alone memorized. Improv. Do something.
"...I give up."
Exit stage right. Curtain drawn. Silence. My tombstone was written the day she let me go. My epitaph reads loud and clear - 'stay away'. I am not deserving of a hopeful heart; I am simply the ball and chain to faces long gone. That fateful love letter or aging photograph that the few who tried show to their grandkids - "now, he was different".
I feel like crying. And not because I'm alive.
ish I could be there to cry with you, right now, Jordan, even if we'd be crying because of different things, we'd be crying a lot for the same. I don't know completely how it feels for you right now, because most of me has moved past the hole a stab to the heart that painful leaves, but I do remember, and there's part of me that hasn't healed yet, too.
I miss you, hon, even more because I feel like the wretched shit of the earth right now. Hope to hear from you soon so I can figure out when we can hang out next!