Monday, March 26, 2007

I survive on the breath you're finished with, but it's okay.
I can always deal.
You can be scared today and angry tomorrow and helpless all the time, but it's okay. I'm not even half-awake from delirium. Agueagueit'stheague! The pieces don't fit. How can these things make your heart race (it's impossible) I filled up the sheet with words, words over and over again until the whole sheet was covered with scrawling, little ants marching in little rows, little columns, little little ants and my breath has weight and my words have weight and my smile has weight because you think no one can tell? People can tell and they tell. It was a letter to She Who Wouldn't Understand What I Wrote. In other words, you are a hymn like I am a hymn. I said that I can't do devastatingly original (because others have been tormented by eerily similar wants) and so I'd have to settle for devastated (because I also cannot do devastating). The Devastation would happen by the sea, on the beach (lying down), because I cannot swim, and if a wave came to sweep me away, I wouldn't be able to save myself, even though I'd want to, but I want to be saved but I refuse to let myself be saved.
This is not my sickness. It isn't mine. It's hers not mine.
I'm going to work out.

- leave.
by @ 6:05 PM