what have you found
the same old fear
It's so effortless on his part. It's nothing. A phrase, a few words tossed out in space, and gone. Gone, gone, to sit in my head and undo all my work. Cause it's not effortless, on my end, to let them go. It's not so easy, even though it should be, because I should know better. Because yes, I know it's easy.
It's weird, how I can tell myself anything I want and convince myself of anything I want and put myself anywhere I want until some thing, some one, some boy on a skateboard mohawks his way into my skull and wrecks all of that and makes me wonder. Could he possibly, possibly mean any of the things that he says? He couldn't possibly. Because I know him, and I know that the weight of the things that he says is not something that he is interested in carrying. Ever. In fact he specifically avoids situations in which that weight could present itself. He carries the bags for himself, sorry, can't carry that for you, got these bags. And flees.
And then says these things, these little things, these small, telling things that are like glass. He drops them and I catch them before they break and while I know that really, it is only sand, I look at it and it is something else. And I hate that. And I try to drop it, to let it break the way it should, the way it was meant to, but sometimes I don't want to. Sometimes, these times, I want to keep it and put it on my shelf and take it down every once in a while and look at it and go That, that is a souvenir, that was a gift from that boy that I really should have not kept. Cause then I'm afraid that something is going to happen to it. There's going to be an earthquake. An errant broom handle. Something, something is going to hit that and it is going to fall off when I am not ready and I'm going to be standing there, staring at the bits, wondering why I kept it in the first place when really, it was nothing to him.
And there is the rub. There's the trouble. Cause I make that assumption, but I don't really know. He kisses me every time I see him, and every time I leave, and in between. My neck. He holds my back when we walk. He tells me things about myself that I know I did not tell him, so how does he know? Could he really be looking that closely, and if he is, is it because he means it? Ever? And if he does, how long will it take before he stops for lack of reciprocation? And if I give it back, how fast, how super fast, how superhumanly fast will it become clear that I got the wrong idea, that I misinterpreted, and he just thinks I'm really, really cool?
It's so effortless on his part. It's nothing. A phrase, a few words tossed out in space, and gone. Gone, gone, to sit in my head and undo all my work. Cause it's not effortless, on my end, to let them go. It's not so easy, even though it should be, because I should know better. Because yes, I know it's easy.
It's weird, how I can tell myself anything I want and convince myself of anything I want and put myself anywhere I want until some thing, some one, some boy on a skateboard mohawks his way into my skull and wrecks all of that and makes me wonder. Could he possibly, possibly mean any of the things that he says? He couldn't possibly. Because I know him, and I know that the weight of the things that he says is not something that he is interested in carrying. Ever. In fact he specifically avoids situations in which that weight could present itself. He carries the bags for himself, sorry, can't carry that for you, got these bags. And flees.
And then says these things, these little things, these small, telling things that are like glass. He drops them and I catch them before they break and while I know that really, it is only sand, I look at it and it is something else. And I hate that. And I try to drop it, to let it break the way it should, the way it was meant to, but sometimes I don't want to. Sometimes, these times, I want to keep it and put it on my shelf and take it down every once in a while and look at it and go That, that is a souvenir, that was a gift from that boy that I really should have not kept. Cause then I'm afraid that something is going to happen to it. There's going to be an earthquake. An errant broom handle. Something, something is going to hit that and it is going to fall off when I am not ready and I'm going to be standing there, staring at the bits, wondering why I kept it in the first place when really, it was nothing to him.
And there is the rub. There's the trouble. Cause I make that assumption, but I don't really know. He kisses me every time I see him, and every time I leave, and in between. My neck. He holds my back when we walk. He tells me things about myself that I know I did not tell him, so how does he know? Could he really be looking that closely, and if he is, is it because he means it? Ever? And if he does, how long will it take before he stops for lack of reciprocation? And if I give it back, how fast, how super fast, how superhumanly fast will it become clear that I got the wrong idea, that I misinterpreted, and he just thinks I'm really, really cool?
posted by machine central at 9:33 AM
1 Comments:
It seems what you need to ask yourself is - are you READY for another thrilling episode? It will, of course, have to look like an accident.
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