victims of changeonly a thin slat of light falls acrossthe darkened room to rest on a wallas lonely as i am, a wall that couldtell stories older than the blood in my body.i think of how we are just peoplewho organize their lives and lovesinto boxes of respective sizes, andyet these boxes hold more than ourmemories - they hold ourselves.in this room, so many things havehappened: a lost innocence, a lostvirginity, a lost sense of self.thoughi cannot help but remember how thisroom was just a futon and bunk-bedswhen we first met, i alsocannot help but realize that thisroom has cocooned and evolvedwith me, over time.in an attempt to rid you from where isleep, i switch beds.in an attempt to rid you from myself,i chance myself nightly.and though i cannot see anything inthe unlit cave i call my bedroom, ifind comfort in the ceiling, for that iswhere my memories, bad dreams, andfaith lie.
winterxxiii. weeks and days and hours of recovery were instantly undone when that songcame on the radio in the cab somewhere 20 minutes away from home and i sat there sobbingin the car and i could feel the taxi driver feeling awkward with this girl in the back soundinglike a humpback whale, but i didn't know how to stop. i cried while i handed him the(slightly soggy) change, and i cried up the stairs, into my room and onto the bed.all that progess, dissolved in the first 7 bars of a song.
apart.and I was sitting in the gutterafter trying for the fourth night in a rowto drown you along withall my other ghostsand the churchwas across the streetcross lit up high in the skyand it feltlike the completeopposite of salvation.it was 4amand with the neon blueshining in my eye linei realised i was alonei was utterly alonein the saddest way possible.
napowrimo1. i've stopped fearingmy nightmaresand when i dream aboutdyingi just see your faceand get your songs in myhead and stuck in mythroatand i understand you nowi get it.i get iti get it.now stop.2. this is the darkest timeline.this is everything that can go wronggoing wrong.this is worse than you dyingthis is worse than the burningthis is worse than you overstaying your welcome.i cant even talk to him anymorecause it just sounds likehe's sticking his fingers in his earsand screaming how he'snotlisteningnotlisteningnotlistening.which i should have done a long time ago.3. i try to comprehend it sometimescause i know that a persons life never feelsthe same from the inside as it looks from the outside.and i'm sure yours was fucking hard, cause it lookedlike it would have taken anyone else and justdestroyed them.you still looked tough as fucking nails to methough, and i swore, no i still swear you are somekind of indestructble, but the kind that comesfrom comp
4:51i. the exact same distancethat makes this all sofuckingmuch worse.is the same that'sprotecting youright now.ii. you fled.i think the oceans saltemphasized the stinkof utter failureand honestlyif it was the strongfrom a thousand miles acrossimagine how it isliving with it constantly.iii. bad things come in threes.this is ringing in my head and my earsand fuck.it will hit me and i know it willknock me down.iv. i'm done getting up.
on clarity, seeing yourself as you arewe're all hypocrites here.and we're all artists.we paint ourselvesonto someone else likeit isn't painful for them,like it isn't killing themin the process. we give themownership of our failures,we lay our flaws under theirtongues so when they speak,more often than not, we hearsome distorted version ofourselves. we expect themto love the way we love. we expectthem to fight the way we fight. but yeah, we'reall fucking artists, right?and we're all individuals, of course.we're all on our brave, one-mantrip to enlightenment,we're proud of the wayour word has been shaveddown to feelings, and moments,mood swings, and oxyoff the bathroom sink.well i can't be the only fuckingone who's tired of being an artist.i can't be the only one tiredof seeing my skin stretched out overeveryone i know. i am tired of watchingmy reflection shimmer and fade in theirsmiles, in their wrath. i am tired of becomingsilver in one moment only to tarnish in thenext. i am tired of asking
even so.you were my eternal bad feeling.that lingering kick in my gut, from not knowing what stupid or self destructive thing you would be doing today.you drank too much, and i tired to pry too many bottles out of your hands in the time i loved you.not to say i dont still love you, but its different now. its a habit, or just the leftovers of the real thing. somewhere it got too much, the nights got too long, and i was fighting you more than i was fighting for you. the odds were stacking up against us, and i knew i had to get out of there before they buried us.so i let them bury you.
just say so.I learned the other day what people mean when they say that you don't stop hurting, don't stop feeling the sting of grief, you just learn to deal with it. You adjust to it and it becomes normal after a while.It still kicks me in the chest and I have to catch my breath. I heard your song in the supermarket Tuesday afternoon and I dropped the bread. I didn't even notice until someone started humming it and I asked myself to please not cry in the middle of the bakery aisle and at least wait until I was outside. I made it to the car. And I broke and it was hard to remember that had forgotten for so long.But I wished it had stayed forgotten.cause I miss you again and now I'm back where I started and feeling more defeated than ever.