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"I'm not ready for a relationship now."

He said it. He's right.

And you're not ready either, dear heart, in fact, you have a lot of work to do and if you're not willing to do it for your sake then there's no use.

It's going to be so hard. I don't know how to start. Where to start. I don't remember what I should be like. They don't like me whenever I start to change.

But I do have too much up in my head to even seriously entertain the thought of being with someone. I need to get myself sorted before I hazard up and drag someone else down with me.

I still like him quite a lot. And care for him, obviously. I just want to hold him for now. Be there for him. Is it silly?

These people our age don't understand, I think, but I could be completely wrong. Would they understand if I said we weren't going out because neither of us were really up for it now? But I'm not just about to abandon the lot of it either, y'know? All we have is now, so I'm going to take it.

Of course, maybe he just doesn't like me at all. Maybe I'm just a convenience.



(But we're still going to try and we're still breathing, so get up and get those fists back up. The ring won't wait for you.)

Kara II: The Wrath Of Another Romantic.

I'm back.


A test run?

Probably.

Less crazy?

Depressed crazy? Sure.

Manic crazy? Yeah, maybe.

This is liable to end badly.

But, you know, for now,

It's good to smile.

(And to like this boy, though we all know how that turned out.)

(And by 'we all,' I may mean just me. But, y'know, that's just how that went.)





This could be a turning point.

Or the part that pushes me to complete madness.

So

Basically

Y'know...

It's an adventure.

(Deep breath, but don't hold it. Time to be alive again.)

Chasing Cars

I almost placed myself in front of a seriously speeding car today.

They slowed last minute for the crosswalk before I could fight my instinct.



Or act on it.

But It's Not.

I thought...I thought this was over.





(and it's a while since you shut that door, are you awake and asleep no more?)

Perfunctory October Post Is Perfunctory.

What puts me to sleep, in order of attempts:

1) Counting to 99 in Japanese.
2) Repeating the days of the week over and over in Japanese.
3) Counting the minutes in Japanese.
4) Listening to a deep beat CD (Postal Service, Maroon 5, Ludo)
5) Thinking of Isaac.




(I always end up at number 5, always.)

That Morning in May

So.

He

He

He

(Yes, He)

IM'd me.

I Understand The Irony Of The Situation

But I realize, once more, that I don't give a fuck.

I know what I am.

So I fuck up once and then, OMG, I"M AWFUL!!11!!1

How many times did Adric fuck up you hypocritical fuckers?

Yeah, that's what I thought.

(Fuck you, I'm going out with Isaac tonight, and how would you stop me? You think you can take me? Well, I'm tired of living in your doublespeak mindfucking tyranny. I have worked ridiculously hard to maintain my own standards of self with no help from your drunken and/or enabling selves, and now I'm tired of you trying to play parents. You aren't shit.)

Fuck, I crave their approval.

But

I don't really need it any more.

What do you think me and Jess are going to do?

Go out drinking and drugging? 'Cos we're not.

"Oh, well, as much as we love Jess, we just don't trust her."

Fuck you, trust me. Trust me to have chosen friends who respect my personal preferences.

And, yeah, I'm really lying to go out with Isaac all night tonight. And we're not going to sleep together. Have sex. Fuck.

Fuck no, because not only do I know I am not ready for that shit, I just plain don't want to, because I apply a little personal fucking responsibility.

But I do want to see him. I want him to hold my hand when I feel like my delicately created whim based world is exploding. And I want him to look at me where we lay in the car, through the darkness and under the streetlights, and I want to see how much he cares for me in those eyes. I want to be somewhere where at 3 in the morning where I won't be wondering just how much more of a fuck up I can be before everyone leaves me. I want to be with someone who just shuts my head off, and, failing that, would hold me until the thoughts go away. That's all I want. Because in the darkness of your household for the past four years I've been tracing scars of self loathing and world bashing resentment and hatred and frighteningly overwhelming despair, and now I'm pretty ready to not feel those things anymore.

And you think I'm going to go out and fuck my life up anyways.

(All I'm trying to do is prevent that.)

Isaac Soto

Fuck.

Fuckfuckfuck
Fuck

Fuck you.

And fuck me.

And fuck everything.

(And I'm so fucking tired.)

Hello My Morbid Little Darlings

What are you doing?

Talk, talk talk.

You're leaving your fucking guts on the floor behind you.

Do you intend to spew your heart to every passing star?

They'll be burnt out long before you, cold, cold Pluto.

That boy is one thing, break a few eggs to steal a few eggs. What the hell kind of omelette you're making is beyond me, but hey.

But the rest? Where is your necessity?

Cease.





Oh, cold Pluto, in love with every passing
flickering shooting star.
Their warmth brushing your
icy hard surfaces in the parody of a
lover's caress.

Oh, cold Pluto, in your inexonerable
crawl toward nothingness.
Those stars streak past trailing
childish laughter just at the edge of hearing as a
piteous echo.

Oh, cold Pluto,

Tired.

Literally.

Of being second string
Of being no string

Of losing out to the prettier friends

Of awkward social settings
Of pretending to care

Of caring

Of pursuing
Of watching them recoil

Of pretty boys who are pretty blind

Of trying hard
Of making goals

Of never being enough

Of crying
Of not crying

Of being alone

Of loving
Of you

Of loving you

Tired

Of being tired

Until Then, Well, I'm Gonna Have To Lie To You.

What? What do I keep expecting?



Silly little fuck. Stupid little fuck.



What are you expecting? That magically, out of nowhere, someone's going to come for you? Because You Are Alone. You are. And you keep trying to stave it off, put it off, write it off, but you idiot you can't because this is how you're stuck. No one wants you.



Not those stupid little boys you make up in your head.



Not your creepy little games.



Or your random fucking mind fucks.



"No one wants you."



Why does that have to hurt so bad? Why does it mean so much to me? I don't understand. Idon't.Idon't. And it hurts, oh, fuck, it hurts. And it always hurts and it has always hurt and it will always hurt and ow fuckfuckfuck.



Alex? What the fuck? Do you know what you are to him? Entertainment. With tolerable impositions on his time. It's not his fault. It's yours. You're just not good enough.



Never good enough.



Never ever.



Remember that time you thought you were? You were so fucking ready?



Well, you learned the truth then, didn't you?



Oh, fuck, you were both so fucked up and you were so fucking 'in love' you would have died for him. You would have put a gun to your head and shot yourself for him and you know it and you also know that it doesn't matter. It. Doesn't. Matter. Because he still left you without a single glance back.



And he would do it again. Because as much as you would like to say, "he does it every day he doesn't contact me" what the fuck are you expecting? Where have you been living?



Anywhere. Anywhere but here. Books, movies, my own made up worlds. Because I can't-can't-can't live in this one. Paineverywhere. People dying. Animals dying. DyingDyingDying in slow, painful, horrible ways and rape and prejudice and fuck it hurts! It hurts too much!



You'll never make it out there. You know you won't. He got the 'apathetic' wrong. Not "I don't care what people think"--that's confidence. You just Don't Care. Because, fuck, if you did, well,



You'd be exactly what you are now.



I want to do it.



Coward.



I could do it! I could! It's so close. And those pills, those pretty little pills. What would they taste like.



Drown them in apple juice, it won't matter.



All the people who shouldn't die and do, can't I take their place?



You don't want that. You'd fucking bow out before the blow was even construed.



But...I want to.

To Think In Metaphors

A
Perfect
Smile

Pink lips, soft, stretched gently over
tiny mountain pinnacles of white
purities.

A
Perfect
Smile

Below pink eyes with blood filled
spirals brimming with tonight's
rain.

Though the nightmare is gone, now I don't have a dream.

Alex

You should know better by now.

Deep breath

and

exhale.



This'll only ever end badly for you<3

She Wrote.

Fuck, I'm so alone.

Boys
are fucking useless.
I'm not pretty enough
Or whore enough
for them.

Family
is making me sick.
Dad dying. Mom crying. Brother
nonexistant.

Friends
don't exist.
Ineffectual beings that just couldn't
keep up.

Right Things

I'm tired of saying and doing all the right things.

(And getting shit in return.)

Hah. (Fuck.)

"I spend too much time thinking about things that well never happen and dressing up for the boy that will never care."


Well, Hell, I can be summed up in an lj icon.

Thoroughly Mindfucked.

Anyone ever just been thoroughly mindfucked by a dream?

Fuck, I still can't escape it, and I dreamed it the night before last.

There's just the rustle, the moans, the strong feeling that I'm going to be so fucking sick.

It's driving me a little crazy.

Or a lot.

I'm just

pretty fucked up at the moment.

And I probably shouldn't be.

=/