Saturday, March 27, 2010
Tuesday, March 9, 2010
I get into these moods sometimes where I absolutely, positively hate myself. Like, hate myself for everything I do or stand for. I stare at the mirror like some retard and feel sick to my stomach looking at my reflection. I want to throw up but there’s nothing to force out so I just gag stringy spit into the sink that taste like lime and disgust.
I’m a mess. I’m failing because I drink too much and play too much. I play and drink too much because I’m failing. I look at people and think of the best ways to make use of them and get whatever I want. I sit alone at 4am in my living room, in the dark, with the TV on letterman, and just smoke until I get chest pains. I use people to get what I want, but I don’t know what I want.
Some nights like these, I think about suicide. I think about downing shots of detergent and lying down to die. Or putting a bag around my head so when they find my body in the morning, no one has to see my pathetic face, no one has to pretend to say goodbye. And then like a coward, I wiki up articles on seppuku and blue suicide, asphyxiation and self inflicted gunshot wounds, and put it off and off and off until I get so fucking tired, I fall asleep and dream wonderful pink dreams of dying that un-frost like a cold window when I wake up.
It is disappointing to open your eyes and realize your eyes are open, and you’re in bed, and still alive. So I flirt and I laugh and I talk and smoke and drink and write, and it is all just a mask, I am just pretending to be normal and wishing I were dead.
I’m a mess. I’m failing because I drink too much and play too much. I play and drink too much because I’m failing. I look at people and think of the best ways to make use of them and get whatever I want. I sit alone at 4am in my living room, in the dark, with the TV on letterman, and just smoke until I get chest pains. I use people to get what I want, but I don’t know what I want.
Some nights like these, I think about suicide. I think about downing shots of detergent and lying down to die. Or putting a bag around my head so when they find my body in the morning, no one has to see my pathetic face, no one has to pretend to say goodbye. And then like a coward, I wiki up articles on seppuku and blue suicide, asphyxiation and self inflicted gunshot wounds, and put it off and off and off until I get so fucking tired, I fall asleep and dream wonderful pink dreams of dying that un-frost like a cold window when I wake up.
It is disappointing to open your eyes and realize your eyes are open, and you’re in bed, and still alive. So I flirt and I laugh and I talk and smoke and drink and write, and it is all just a mask, I am just pretending to be normal and wishing I were dead.
Wednesday, February 3, 2010
there is something about your eyes and their haggard droop, like old stools, that wash me off my feet and drown me in their wooden gaze.
your eyes make me say stupid things because i have no idea what my mouth is doing when i see you.
all i can do is hold on tight and hope that the music and the ride stops before i say something half-fucked again.
your eyes make me say stupid things because i have no idea what my mouth is doing when i see you.
all i can do is hold on tight and hope that the music and the ride stops before i say something half-fucked again.
Saturday, January 16, 2010
Tuesday, January 5, 2010
i think it's the things you don't say that hang between each sentence. every breath, pause and look that is so important to me. YOU are so important to me. what you mean, what you represent, what you say, think, laugh.
it's what you are, and what i am to you that makes me go on.
which is why, as she mentioned today over subway sandwiches and cookie crumbs we throw to the cat, i change when i'm with you, even if we're just on the phone.
'you sound so different!' she said. 'so...'
she paused.
'gentle!' she finally exclaimed.
i laughed.
'you were like a girl!' she declared.
the kitten under the table pawed at flecks of bread and tried to chew them.
i guess it doesn't really matter which girl i'm with, who's in my arms or in my bed or in my life, you'll always be the one i can never let go, like a moth to flame.
it's what you are, and what i am to you that makes me go on.
which is why, as she mentioned today over subway sandwiches and cookie crumbs we throw to the cat, i change when i'm with you, even if we're just on the phone.
'you sound so different!' she said. 'so...'
she paused.
'gentle!' she finally exclaimed.
i laughed.
'you were like a girl!' she declared.
the kitten under the table pawed at flecks of bread and tried to chew them.
i guess it doesn't really matter which girl i'm with, who's in my arms or in my bed or in my life, you'll always be the one i can never let go, like a moth to flame.
Sunday, January 3, 2010
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