Stupid america.

`


                                                                     Oh my God.




Oh my God.








            Oh my God.

                                                                                           Oh my God.

Expectations vs. Reality

I misunderstood every adult I came into contact with throughout my childhood. It's not their fault though. I just thought that they hated it when I talked; hated me bothering them. And mostly, I think they liked that I left them alone, the adults.

But there's always been a disconnect. I mean, seriously, I didn't say my first complete thought until I was 4... and I must have terrified my parents. I was presumably retarded. And perhaps it is true that maybe I have an unidentified retardation.

And now I stand in the way. I hate the way words feel and sound when they come out of my mouth. When other people talk, I'm commonly repulsed. And it's mostly because I imagine they've spent hours mapping out these very words to say to anyone. It almost makes me laugh. But my face starts to feel heavy and my smile must look fake. Nervously I chuckle, and it's evident.

 Pessimism:
And people make you nervous
You'd think the world is ending,
And everybody's features have somehow started blending
And everything is plastic,
And everyone's sarcastic,
And all your food is frozen,
It needs to be defrosted.

Optimism:

And people are just people,
They shouldn't make you nervous.
The world is everlasting,
It's coming and it's going.
If you don't toss your plastic,
The streets won't be so plastic.
And if you kiss somebody,
Then both of you'll get practice.

If I could just get the second one down...

Institutions

And why did they want  to come to a party for me? But they all dressed fancy and came to my graduation party. And it was fancy, with beautiful cakes and dresses and ties.

Strangely,

I really do think this is how it would feel to be in Iceland.

Sigur Ros

Realitiless

Why'd you fuck her?
Why'd you fuck Sarah Stidman?

Was it because you knew I was watching and you knew it would hurt?
I thought you were holding my hand but you weren't holding my hand.
But it was your face. And you were so nice to me.
I was too concerned with watching you fuck Sarah Stidman to know.

And you were divided.
But the only you I cared to acknowledge was not the one cradling me to sleep.
Why did you do it? Why did you fuck her?
Is it because she was beautiful?
She is beautiful. Thin with wavy golden hair.
Light freckles kiss her cheeks which hold up two blue moons for eyes.

And you were crying with me.
At least some part of you was.
I barely would glimpse at your face because I was too busy staring.
Into the eyes of a betrayer.
The content eyes.

Somehow I'd wanted this.
This hurt. And it hurt.
But never mind all that.

Compost for your garden.

There's a distinct dissatisfaction to the way my words hit your ears, and I can tell.
The way you grimace because I've said the wrong thing.
How your lip sneers and your eyes are full of disappointment.
And if you didn't despise my words enough, my silence drives you mad.
Your jaw tenses and your teeth clank.
Eye contact is out of the question and I'm relieved.

In my head I'm screaming, "What the fuck is wrong with you?"
And I think I'm talking to myself, but I know I'm partially talking to you.

But you don't hear it.
My mind is racing with appropriate responses, but I can see it all playing out.
It's like a book, unfolding in slow motion.
Happening just as fast as my eye would read the words.
I'm not fast enough to write this story though, only read it.
This is your story and I'm ruining it.

You can tell that I'm disgusted with the plot you wrote out.
You knew that this would be a fight and I fell for it.
Although you never laid a hand on me, I can feel your tight grip around my neck.
Fingers carefully laced.
"I'm sorry, I really do care," is all I can muster.
Not good enough.

What do you really want from me, though?
You implied that I was not to get attached.
But now I'm too unattached?
I know you're still in love with her, so why are you asking me to do this?
And don't call me Baby.
That was your worst mistake.
Because now I can't tell if it's you or me fucking everything up.

And I laid out nice words like salve on your wounds and you healed.
But your words hurt me so deeply.
There's no way I'll ever forget now.
The callus around my fragile soul is so much thicker.
Dammit.

And we have to stop.
You said it too.
I had thought it several nights, while wading in my misery.
It's not that it's not fair to me.
It's not fair to you.
You'd never admit that, though.

If you had never told me how deeply you felt for her so many nights ago, it could pass.
But I know your heart is yearning for something out of reach.
Even though you made the rules I know you would break them for her.
It's none of my business.
But I'm sad for it.
Because it's fragile and I can't talk about it now.

And you were right.
Sometimes when we were together I did wish for forever.
I didn't really mean it though, because I would get tired of you.
Like I am now that you have made me sleep outside.
I'm tired and confused.
Mostly, I feel helpless around you like I'm always going to get it wrong.
Because I always get it wrong.
Then I feel so ashamed.
You're going to lash me across my cheek again with your words.
I can feel it.

I gave you this power when I secretly let you in.
You didn't even know you were in.
Because when we danced I was stiff and stepped on your toes.
Or something.
But you should have known.
The way I laughed and smiled and traced your collar bones, resting momentarily on a mole.
Fuck you very much.
It's not that I care because I'm past the point of feelings.
It's just bitterness.
The feeling of trickery.

You told me not to tell anyone and it messed me up.
I wouldn't have, but why didn't you trust that?
I agreed to the terms just like you.
I accepted everything that morning that I laid there dead.
Sometimes, it's just too much.
Too overwhelming, like it is now to try to sort.
It's dumped acid into my fragile stomach and infected my brain.
And I don't want you to do anything but acknowledge that I might be right.
A simple "I'm sorry that I did that to you."
I didn't care until you made me care and then your first sacrifice was my dignity.
Now I have no pride.
And I can feel you running away because you see me turning to salt.
You realize that everything I fall on will be barren.

But run.
I begged you to before.
I begged you to before I was involved.
Before we ignored all boundaries.
And I'm pissed that you didn't heed my warning.
This is all your goddamn fault because you are afraid of how frail I am.
You were afraid.
But you threw me as hard as you could and my porcelain skin shattered against the wall.
You picked up as many pieces as you could and wept into them, all alone on night.
But by the morning you were gone.
Your china doll sitting on your case at home, waiting for you to brush its hair.
I imagine you did.
100 strokes until it shined so brightly.

I'm sorry. I should have said the right thing.