This is a sick breed of sadness. I think about all the dead leaves I trailed in the house. More baggage, more mood swings. More crazy feelings in my veins. The people whose faces I miss stack into piles on my lap. Already treading a high tide, more to think about. More things to pace about. I always wondered how people simply move away. And I did, I packed my years of mess into suitcases and crossed that Louisiana border. I wonder how it'd be if I had stayed.. would I still have these friendships to show for? Would have I truly lived? Would I be alive?

Yeah I want love, but I fight everyday to prevent it.

Love is a topic I am at not of liberty to discuss but here I go anyhow...

Love, an archeological dig, repetitive and demanding. Years of tired techniques and sun scorched skin. Two people entitled to one another. Entitled to the promise of each other. The end all be all kinda love. Absurd pet names kinda love. Drunk in public fighting kinda love. And then suddenly it ends, some one dampers the intense love dynamic. A spear to the core of it, zapping it's credibility. So at the end of the day what do you have? A measly story, a moment in time captured by a camera's zoom which is then interrupted when the pictures at hand burn and fray. You then vow to enter love a little less naive next time. You'll refer to him in past tense and keep his hoodie. You think to yourself he'd make for a great story one day. And all of this, this warped cycle is supposed to entice me? Rather it makes me think that lovers are fools. Playing a blind hand. Betting chips on a sinking ship. I might chirp and squirm but I make a valid point. Can you love if your end result is a foiled plan? Sound off 1,2.

"If neurotic is wanting two mutually exclusive things at one and the same time, then I'm neurotic as hell. I'll be flying back and forth between one mutually exclusive thing and another for the rest of my days."
Sylvia Plath

To be continued..

In retrospect she was meant to be forgotten. Oversize feet, meaty hips, barely there tits, prickly legs. All the makings of a spec of the past. Lips that are a shade too pale, skin that is salty from the Texas sun. Cellulite on the thighs, ratty hair, wobbly knees a prototype defect. Assembly line trash. Made lovable? No, that would require blessings from the gods. A god, any god. Any idol worth worshiping. Good luck doesn't just land into the lap of a gal like her. Any present is coated in grime. Any well intention is hidden behind bad intentioned human beings. Miracle? What is that? In her world the earth was scattered with bad news. Miscarriages, abortions, relationships gone astray, what is there to live for? Maybe the thought of living has become too abstract. Blink and you might miss the art at hand. She wasn't sheltered, knew the shape of a dick by age 14. No, she wasn't outdated, she was far ahead of her kind. She thought of the bigger picture, the Picasso's at large. Cigarette ashes scattered her dashboard, she gripped the world with her index finger. The chipped polish in all it's glory. She knew she was going somewhere. The road maps burned, the compass shattered. She knew that she could piece back together a journey, one that had yet to be completed. So she sighed and changed the awful radio station, foot on the peddle, eye on the prize. To be continued she wrote...

Always lead back the same steep road
Back to my sophomore year, not yet sure of anything
You slip me back in the palm of your hand
I'm quicksand, engulfed in the essence of dissolving in midair.
Magic trick, word play, this all ends the same
You are a frat boy now. Toga parties, keg stands you are a college lad.
I reflect on our younger years, i'm reappearing,
My motive is to be reflected
On the years that are now shrunken into morsels
Pieces of the past, meant to be put back together
Memories can be cruel. The road is getting easier.
I collect into a solid figure and kiss the past goodbye with my movement.

Yet in her mind he still remains "the man-boy who sent her something in the mail." On the rebound because his true love went astray. His heightened impulsive behavior. Like a snake who's only reaction when things don't go his way is to coil his tail tighter. Constricting the vital organs as to make the sensible not so. Girl, your heart is too big, Your brain, his puppet. Puddy in hands as they say. They do say.

Heat stroke.

Concrete, set we dwell

On material things

Engulf our thoughts with unnecessary wonders.

Splitting our mind, dividing our body

Causing a rip in the unison.

Perplexed, we turn to our brain.

The brain wants peace but we turn the other cheek.

We sulk, contemplate, commiserate.

Dead silence, we tried.

And so we wait some more

Yet now we dwell in calm.

Why did I do this to myself again?

What a whirlwind. We sit catercorner to each other, each with our respective laptops and our bonechilling silence cutting the air like a razor sharp knife. We both have our opinions on the world and we both just want some fucking recognition. Dominating the airwaves, sweeping our histories into new story lines in hopes of grabbing the audience's attention. Coming away with a sort of nonchalant victorious undertone. Drinking Pabst, the hipster jungle juice. Maybe we'll take a break and dwindle into our present. Maybe we'll jab some sarcasm into the equation. When you are on a hiatus from your peers you start to question your integrity, even for a millisecond.