the moon's premonition.

Sugar coating this wouldn’t make it better. 

You make me feel guilty. You make me feel guilty for caring, for feeling, for thinking. You make me feel guilty for trying, and apparently failing, to fulfill your expectations. But I don’t understand your expectations; I don’t understand your reasoning. I don’t understand the words that don’t come out of your mouth. I don’t understand the choices you make or the actions you take. 

 

I can hear you, even when you think I cant and your words burn.  I had made it my duty to comprehend the vastness that is you, but I can’t unravel it.  And I am exhausted, this quest has consumed me for far too long and I am worn out.  I don’t need to rest, I don’t want to stop, but I am attempting to remove myself anyway, because I know its what you want.

 

Can you blame me for trying?  I guess sometimes the broken is truly unfixable, which is sad.  And it makes me hate myself for wasting so much time, effort and thought.  My apologies.  I’m done now.

for nothing

two weeks gone to waste.

damn it.

how pathetic.

What do you want?

a simple observation

My hands look so small right now. I see them and I try to fathom them, short nails, untamed cuticles, two gold diamond rings. My fingers, which typically appear pudgy due to many years of knuckle cracking, seem slim, frail and weak.  Somehow there is a faded heart drawn in pen, on my left hand.  How it got there, I am unaware.  I stare at them, busy at work. They glide over the white and grey letters, making something. Creating something useless. Something pointless. They bend. They hurt, they ache right now. They are wrinkly like my grandma’s used to be, they are tired.  Six freckles, so small, hardly detectible. My hands are a mystery. How can they do the things they do. How do they express everything and nothing.  They are just hands.  But I have somehow suddenly realized that hands, my hands, your hands, are capable of far more than we ever thought possible.  Hands hold others, make them feel safe and comfortable, wanted and loved. Hands hurt others, they shoot the gun, cut the skin, stab you in the back. Hands are beautiful, they are disgusting. They hide things in their plams, keep secrets, keep me warm. Mine are soft.  Blonde thin hairs, barely visible.  Palms fleshy, cold and clammy. Each crease like a scar, forever there, never to leave. I see veins, blue and purple. I squeeze my palms shut, digging my the tips of my nails into my skin. It might hurt, but I don’t feel it anymore. I want to see the crescent shape my nails make in the palm of my hand. The little half moons that only remain for a few minutes, reminding me of my presence. Then they fade, forever gone.

 

I need a more permanent reminder.

asking nicely.

84 Days

when did the love turn to fear? i am so afraid of you. your presence scares me. you leave me anxious and worried all the time. i know you are judging, and your thoughts terrify me. so i hide, and i speak no more. 

Suburban.

And there sits the white picket fence, in its box in the corner of that green room. Its ready to be assembled, its waiting for me. It’s trying to tempt me with the picture on the box, saying all this could be yours. The picture is of a house, a large blue house, with an inviting red door and shutters on all the windows, and the same sprawling white picket fence. It’s a beautiful house, a happy house, a house with no troubles or worries. The family who lives there loves each other.  They are playing with their dog in the grassy front yard. They smile. Real genuine happy smiles. They are content.  This fence is keeping them together. It keeps them safe. It keeps the dog from running away. It keeps unwanted intruders out. It keeps them delighted and blissful.

 

From the outside my house looks similar to the house on the box, it looks like all the other houses in this average suburban town.  It’s large and its blue with an inviting red door, and shutters on the windows and a grassy front lawn. But on the inside it’s run down, pathetic, exhausted and scared.  There is no dog, no family. It’s not a happy house.

 

But the white picket fence has the ability to hide the forlorn character hiding within the walls. No one would know that the inside has no furniture, no light bulbs in the lamps, and no paintings on the walls. That it has an inch of dust covering the dark wooden floors, making it difficult to breath. No one would know about the green room.  They would walk their dogs and children past my house, touch my fence and find it safe to assume that my house is a happy house. 

 

I assembled the fence years ago and it’s too late to take it down.  Without the white picket fence my house would display sadness, and ruin the entire aura of the neighborhood. 

 

So the fence stays.