Darling

"The transitory nature of relationships...". When I talk to you I speak in these terms and I wait for you to fulfill a philosophy set out by the pain of my past. I start sentences with phrases like that to sound pragmatic between the corny jokes and un-interpretable moments of moody silence. This, my absolution for my future abandonment of you and that life I said I loved.

In the morning as I stare at my ankle and wonder what the brown spots are and if I've contracted some sort of wilderness rash. You tell me that I'm just dirty. I resist the assertion, dirt isn't spotted. I pour water over myself and watch the spots turn to mud and my face turn to a childlike simplicity that speaks in that ignorance that is acceptable because you grin and shrug your shoulders. I've fallen just far enough to forget what that dust is that covers my life really is. Spots and sorrow and my denial of what the shade fails to hide.

I miss everyone from the past and feel impartial to everyone in my future.

A wish is not an action. It's a dream, a thought, a vague breeze of emotion with no true impetus in the physical realm. Because all the wishing I did for bad things to go away in my life has never worked. What has worked is actions, responsibility, and decisions. But never wishing. Which isn't to say I don't understand the gesture. I do, very much so. I just don't find it useful in the world I inhabit. (Which, it may be safe to say, isn't always even approximate to the reality most people inhabit.)


It´s happening, I've been here before, and I know how to do it quietly, connectedly, so no one really knows exactly where I've gone. It's detachment, it's books, it's movies, it's Internet addictions, hours spent aimlessly surfing instead of interacting and being available... It's not writing and it's not productive. But it's better than other forms of madness in that it staves off the true, total desolation of giving up creativity entirely.

love rain in the absence of wind. The moisture beads on the trees, and each drop at the end of a needle or leaf gathers more and more moisture until it's fat enough to fall off and splat on something below. If that something is the roof of your car, it can sound like gravel or gunshots and be quite startling. And until the drops gather enough water to fall, they're quite lovely beading all the trees in the light.

I live in Guadalajara Jalisco, Mexico now. I don't have time to input a detailed update right now, but I will... soon.

Now that i'm allowed, i'm thinking of getting some holes in my face. I'm very flaky so I don't want something that will leave a huge hole in case I want to take it out because i'm pretty sure that within a week i'll completely regret it.

I don't like eyebrow piercings but this one is kind of cool.
( Read more... )

Day 2. I suppose my subconscious really wants him to call, i spend too much thinking about what I would say or if I should even pick up. I guess i'm secretly hoping this is just one of those times... where he didn't mean what he said. I have to convince myself that its real this time, its certainly over but how do I? How can I? if i'm still completely obsessed. One day at a time like everything else, I'm chain smoking way more than I should and pot has become a dear friend. I should stop... I'm going backwards in time.
I thought that since i'm so lost right now just not thinking as i wrote would help. but nothing came out. no subconscious thoughts. no anger. just nothing. i feel so empty. i hate not doing anything with my time. i'd rather be working or at school than just sitting at home. reading doesn't distract me anymore. neither does packing.

i finally really understand that garden state quote. i'm not just trying to be emo about it. "You know that point in your life when you realize that the house that you grew up in isn't really your home anymore? All of the sudden even though you have some place where you can put your stuff that idea of home is gone... You'll see when you move out it just sort of happens one day one day and it's just gone. And you can never get it back. It's like you get homesick for a place that doesn't exist. I mean it's like this rite of passage, you know"

i should want to go home. but i don't. i just don't feel any connection at all. i love some of my friends , but let's face it, most of my real friends are in the army. i can be friends with anyone from any distance and I can't be friends with Aman anymore because I hate his blue haired gf and I can't stand the thought of them together. Sorry Aman, I know this is selfish but I can't deny that i'm a selfish girl.

.

is it just more convenient to update when i'm feeling out of sorts?
i hear my fan and see my messy room and i'm wondering when i'm going to get out of my sister's house and go back to california.
As much as I try...
My complete honesty is not available to anyone, i don't think.
i'm afraid the people i like the most are going to find someone better than me which i'm sure in many occasions Taylor already has, i really dont like to be second to anyone. People demand a lot (including myself) its usually indirectly or unintentionally; but it happens all the same.
some stuff you can't control. other stuff you can, but that stuff usually ends up mattering considerably less until you have no control over it anymore.
i have some bathwater waiting for me...
when things get quiet i feel alone but in all honesty i am the happiest when i belong to only myself.
nothing will change that and i hope no one tries to again, it only feels awkward.
( Read more... )

I've decided to start using my livejournal, not as a place to input pretentious ramblings but as a documentation of my actual life, see this has always been my problem; the ability to be completely honest with myself and others is foreign to me-- i hide behind many faces, personalities etc; partly as a self defense mechanism & also for amusement "seeing what i can get away with" type of thing.
Many things have happened since my last attempt to maintain this thing. I don't know if i'll be able to go over everything in detail because my memory fails me often. I guess the most important thing to mention is that I finally ETS'd out of the military after going through numerous problems where the army managed to fuck me one last time i'm finally out with a full honorable discharge. I'm currently engaged with my off again on again boyfriend of 2 1/2 years. I'm still very apathetic about everything but i realized that someone who stays by your side and is whiling to make things work after you tried to commit homicide is definitely someone either very special or completely insane, regardless.. he's good to me; better than anyone has ever been.
On July 16 I tried to kill him, (literally) I was on the edge, my breakdown was around the corner and I finally snapped. If you know me personally you understand that it was just a matter of time before "I hurt myself or someone else" everything happened too fast to remember much, but I can still see myself vividly being carried away to the mental hospital strapped down; the time was 12:43am I remember glancing over at the clock in the ambulance and thinking to myself "is this really me?". I stepped out of my own body and saw the way I was acting but had no control. The reason I snapped is insignificant because i've realized that anything could have pushed me off.
I was bleeding out and Chris calling the military police saved my life I know this and i'm thankful of it. I was uncontrollable not even he could have made me stop. I remember going after him with broken glass and all he could do is hold me down and rub my back i remember this angered me, he could have done anything; slapped me, leave me there, curse me out but instead he reassured me he still loved me.
The morning after he tried to come see me but they wouldn't let him, I was sure i was going to lose him forever, I wouldn't stay or be with someone like me. I'm a bit of a lost cause really, but there he is sleeping in the waiting room... tired I imagine and late for work.
Of course my commander forced me into anger management and mental health therapy, and of course they told me everything I already knew. I was diagnosed with *-----------------* things I have been told before but refused to get "help" for. I managed to talk my way out of this mess and had my whole Company's "pity" and "understanding" all which helped me ETS on good terms.
Aug 17 Chris and I took a much needed vacation to mexico before he deployed, our passion and love for each other came back to life. Sep 01 he deployed to Iraq and here I am, left behind waiting for my Soldier to come back alive. I'm hoping to move to mexico while I wait for him i'm eager and excited to live a normal life outside of the overbearing arms of the US GOV. ( Read more... )

Like an animal, I've sent up every predictable distress signal. Clutching childhood pets to my chest against their will, their geriatric limbs wiggling in futile attempts to get as far away from me as possible. Taking aimless drives and blasting the Smiths, the usual twinge of shame absent. Smoking instead of eating, Sulking in public, pretending to look at the comic book with the soft folded edges I've read more times than anyone should . Every thought I have that doesn't pertain to him, to my weak character, or to the relevance of my simple line drawings I cling to with an intensity usually reserved for lip synching to "Yer Blues" alone in my room. I try to ride out the unrelated thoughts as long as possible. Thoughts about how much I should ration my reading material, about how I should recreate the texture of my chewed up inner lips with synthetic materials, about Gouda cheese.

Emboldened by a pleasant phone call home, I feel wholly confident in my decision to take the longest route possible. The longest route possible being the polite way of saying I just wanted to drive by the apartment, see his car, see if the lights are on. I'm too numbed out to acknowledge how creepy I'm being. Rolling past, the mental pictures of five seconds prior are replaced by an almost deafening feeling of jealousy. My plan's been thwarted...I can't even see the car because there are others parked behind it. Driving stone-faced in the dark, I'm no longer hearing the music crackling out of my shitty car stereo, but the dramatized and imagined conversations that must be taking place back there. But then I remember that I instigated the sanctions. I remember how invalid my feelings about all this are supposed to be. I have selfish and manipulative thoughts. I want to call, force him to be reminded of me while participating in idea synthesis with friends, to ensure that my presence is there even if I am not.

I'm wondering if always being deeply emotionally invested in someone else is crippling me. I wonder if it's a sign of weak character.

Phrases related to combing hair always conjure up images of perfect, immaculate people for me.

I invent people to be intimidated by. Girls who are classically beautiful and shy, as well as inexplicably perverse, Women with quirks that are almost painfully fascinating who, despite modest means, always seem to be dressed to the nines in vintage blouses and wool A-line skirts...the way I wish I could afford to dress in my most shallow and pathetic hours.

Luckily I found my I-pod, so now I'm forced to listen to something besides "Good Woman", "He War", and Halfway to a Three-way on repeat. I'm seeking out neutral music with which I have little or no history.

For a moment, I thought that I was becoming slightly insane in front of my very eyes. Its terrible when you can't really get a grip of your actions, you act on impulse, and before you know it, you've turned into an irrational and selfish freak of nature. I saw the signs as soon as I got back. For some strange reason I wanted to spend every waking hour with him and I started to wonder why I - all of a sudden - became so attached. And during those times he'd want to spend time with his friends without me, I would, for no apparent reason, turn into a bitch of a girlfriend that I swore I would never become - endless grilling, illogical questioning, and THE most sarcastic answers. And not being the type of person to appease what could be mistaken as a BAD case of PMS, (i dont think i would appease myself either), he fights back, points out my psychotic behavior, and refuses to deal with my ugly display of character.

I know... I've officially tainted myself as a bad person. But I don't think I'm completely at fault, defensiveness aside. I just can't seem to forget it... and I suppose that explains my fear or paranoia, that if I let him go off to do what he wants, he might just forget me again. In another chemically induced state of euphoric sensations, I am afraid that I will cease to exist again. But in the end of it all - I still feel like the one who's wrong right now. I got to thinking - was it wrong of me to forgive him so soon? Or is it wrong of me now to hold on to him so tightly in fear of the repetition of something I don't think I will be able to bear? Both. And the horrible thing is that I know exactly what I must do - trust. What's evidently worse is that i cannot bring myself to do it. I just can't. I know that supposedly trust is an act of will, a firm decision that is apparently made along with the act of forgiveness. But underneath it all, I'm still afraid. The irony of it all is that if I keep acting this way, in the end, I will lose him when he was the one who lost me in the first place. And I don't want to lose him. I know deeper than the fear that so unwillingly surfaces from time to time is one plain and simple fact. I love him too much it makes me crazy.

Last weekend he lent me his brother's book - at random I'm sure - because he hasn't even read it and has no idea what it's about. And once again, Milan Kundera, so philosophically realistic and grounded, depicts a situation that I can without a doubt relate to:

"Sometimes - perhaps only for an instant - we fail to recognize a companion. When this happens to lovers, the effect is acute: for a moment the identity of the loved one ceases to exist, and we come to doubt our own......
Such a situation results in a wave of panic. This moment of confusion sets in motion a complex chain of events - forcing you to cross and recross the divide between fantasy and reality."

I suppose subconsciously, I still wonder what went on in his head or in his heart during those times he willfully decides to forget about me because he's having too much fun, or when after coming home at 9pm the next day from the night before, he pretends that he doesnt hear me cry over the phone, or that everything should still be ok after promising to have lunch with me but instead drops another tab in his mouth, that there's nothing wrong with promising to take me to the airport and then decide instead that it is he who should be flying off somewhere in his head.... I always wonder - how can anyone do that to anyone they claim to love? I think as long as I cannot answer those questions or grasp that concept, i doubt that I will ever be ok.... That's not really the solution is it? THe problem with me is that my scars are hard to heal, and I guess I bring this all upon myself by opening up the wounds over and over again. The sane, non-melodramatic solution is for me not to even attempt to grasp those concepts. Its not necessary anymore - because he's promised to never put me in that position again. And I should believe him.

I also suppose that what makes all this so hard to leave is that when he isn't "there", he is everything I want him to be. I can't help but wonder if I'm only fooling myself. I mean is it possible to believe in the duality of me meaning everything and nothing to him?

But at the end of the day, despite all that's happened in the past, all I want to do is be with him and spend time with him... even if it means just doing nothing with him. I'm happy just with that. Sometimes I even feel selfish for wanting to spend time with him and keeping him away from anything else he might want to do. It scares me sometimes that that's how I feel... it's backtracking instead of growing.

It's throwing away everything life has taught me and digressing turning into a selfish bitchy girlfriend. The kind of woman i've always hated and never wanted to become.

I don't know what to do about Erik, he doesn't know i can't maintain relationships i'm only here for a little while there's no use in building any strong bonds
...

I've been on a mini vacation the last four days & last night I began to feel the anxiety control my body.
I could not sleep very well , which unfortunately, is becoming routine.
The mere thought of having to go back to work left me breathless and mindless. I felt so lonely and lost. This feels like a re-run of 7th grade.

and I really hated 7th grade.



My sister called and her husband moved out.


I was glad I wasn't there when they left eachother. I was glad I wasn't lost, crying & stumbling down drunk in the streets.
I was happy to be where I was. I was happy to be safe and held, naked & warm. They called and called and called me, only when they needed me.
I hate to be left wondering. It's the feeling of sleeping with someone you hate, or screaming at someone you love. Only,
I haven't done anything this time. Things are just changing. I still need her, she still needs me. It's still a battle.
It will always be a battle.

//

3 straight days & nights have made us comfortable. We talked till 5am and then started drinking. We passed out dead at 9 and slept till noon.
Then I woke up and chugged a bottle of wine. We went for a walk so I could have a cigarette. I told him the story: the family, the boyfriends, how everything was smashed to pieces in a matter of months. How it is starting to be rebuilt or maybe heal itself. But it's not like a house or layers of skin. It's more like climbing a hill. The people involved keep slipping and sliding all over the place. It's not hard to forget what's at the top.
Sometimes it's, "why bother."
He gets worse than me sometimes. I can see his eyelids opening and closing at this manic pace. He's fighting his body and his mind and I wonder what he thinks of me.
Treesa told him about that night in Guelph. How we were together with that someone. I hope I have time to explain further one day. I hope theres a one day .

See, I hope. I was typing without thinking and now I understand.


Dear Successful grow up man who fancy's me. (something i'm not used to),

I'm old enough to know that they're not butterflies at all. They're just hormones and fluids circulating.
It's that real.
This is making me feel
open to change.
Willing to be better or worse, just anything with you. Anything to keep this going,
I've never known this to be me. But my sickness is subsiding,
there's a whole new kind of break through that I never knew existed.

Like summer, like the buzz of speakers hitting the air.
Like, there are only words for the bad things and just a feeling for the good. Like I've finally been dumb-struck and I don't care.


( Read more... )

time kills everything...even love

but summer will be my saving grace

I'm not quite sure what I'm doing. I'll be honest. I'm just going with the flow. Lao Tzu would draw your attention to the brittle branch that breaks in a strong wind whilst the reeds and grasses simply bend and so stay rooted. What other parallels can I draw to my life right now? I'm undergoing a reordering of values, priorities.
( Read more... )

i must have been a wretched beast in my last life,
to have come back as me:
a moral person.
not a cockroach, not a fruit fly,
not a giant rabid rat,
but a good girl, and alone. ( Read more... )

Been a long time; head above water for a moment, take a look around. Seems like I've been swimming for weeks, underwater, under starlight, no idea where I'm going but hey, the water's warm at least. Even when it's pitch night, there's a lot of things in the ocean that give off their own light...almost enough to see by. I've found some roads, anyway.

Why is it easier to write when you're not yourself? Like that car would never, never start for me but Danny had the knack, he turned the key and it'd let me drive it just fine.

Summer is coming I should be getting out of it's way...but then maybe it'd do me good, to see one through. I'm running out of places to go - at least, I'm running out of clean-slate places; I must stop leaving big devastated craters of history behind me when I leave. Maybe that should be my next experiment; try just...entering and leaving, and not disturbing a thing...trailing ripples behind me that'll fade in moments.

A little light-hearted. I'm enjoying this, strangely, somehow. I'll find myself a shore and build a nest and let the next few months roll past. Line it with dark wings and quiet souls and old, old songs and books I never had time to read. Plot my next caper, for when the sun comes out again.

I'll never settle but I've stopped wanting to; my life is this grand experiment that won't do anyone any good; I'm not leaving any notes except on people's souls; there's no methodology but sheer flightly impulse; there's no target except to keep going as long as I can; and one day die needlessly and dramatically, not for anyone elses's sake but because I wouldn't have it any other way.

And sometimes you want nothing more, nothing more than to be that girl again; sitting in your high tower, surrounded by green expanse and picturebook sky, dramatic, poetic in a world of primary colours. Alone except for your dreams, but oh, what dreams they are - fly faster, fly farther. Exquisite melancholy and epic triumphs in your world where you really can read a person's soul through their eyes, where great heroism still exists, where there are still things worth dying for, and still others beside yourself willing to die for them...

It doesn't have to be fiction, does it?
I don't see any other way. What's left worth dying for? Nothing that I can see. Not in the grand scale anyway...everything that was worth it then is tainted now. Heroism these days, it's inherently corrupt. What's left then, for us, the dreamers? Nothing but nostalgia. Watch the world receding, live out our days in sadness and dream of past glories.
Cynical.
Sometimes I wish I wasn't so, you know. But I can't help it, it's ingrained.
Ingrained? Drilled into you then. Not natural.
...I was idealistic beyond compare once, you know. A long time ago, very long time ago. I dreamed those dreams and I swore I'd make them real...but I never found a way, in all my searching, and pretty soon the world caught up with me, tripped me up and covered me in city life and everythign that comes with it. Cynicism, bitterness, greed, hopelessness. The modern condition.
It's still there in you, though. I can see it. This place is working on you, it's washing everything else away.
You can't set something free in a place where it can't survive; that's crueller than keeping it caged.
Then why not give up, why not just lie down and die?
Everyone else struggles through; some are oblivious, I suppose, some make themselves that way, some realise and struggle against it and invariably fail. There's no reason why I shouldn't be subject to the same trial.
Let me take you home, girl, let me see who you really are.
You think it's any easier there than it is here? It's not, it's harder. Less artifice and more admission of the problem, I admit, but that was the first thing I learned to harden myself against. It's not going to change anything, going back there.
It was the beginning, though, wasn't it? Let me take you to the mountains. Let me see you running.
You're dreaming, you're dreaming. It's not real, and there's nothing left.
Then you have nothing to lose, do you? Let me show you.

...

I said to him, "Build me a tower."

Under the stars. Under the stars.

This is such a little town, but there's so much going on...it's not frantic, it's not electric, but its alive. Port in a storm. We don't venture out into civilisation much but we did last night, we went out and got wasted and laughed and danced and we really are just another carefree twentysomething couple...

I met a guy called Warren. I've never met a Warren before, but there he was, and he was wolfish and arrogant and charming and dark hair, dark eyes, slow smile, mine if I wanted him and any other time I would have jumped him then and there, like I always did, Danny or no Danny, Thomas or no fucking Thomas and on and on and on. He was like the poster-boy for My Casual Fucks. He could have been created for the sole purpose of tempting me back to my old life.

I didn't even want him. It was surreal. My mind recognised the fact that he was MY TYPE in big screaming flaming fucking bold letters, but there was just...nothing...nothing except the boy with the green eyes, sitting at the corner table and waiting for me to bring the drinks back over.

I could have let you believe that I wrote the song, but one lie would bring the whole house down. You looked cloudy; dissappointed but it passed as these things do. I wrote you another but I'm scared to let you hear it. It's the most honest I can be, it's more honest than I am to myself and looking at the words scares me, but not half as much, I think, for all your openness and your wildness and your absolute perfection, that they would scare you.

This can't last forever. It's too quiet.
This isn't cynicism. It's all been driven out of me. This is realism.
No, I don't like it any more than you do but even we need it in our little home on the edge of the woods.
And I didn't say anything bad had to happen.
But something
It's just too quiet.

Sometimes I really miss Korea desperately.

It’s 1:40am. Underneath the dark purple skies, and inside the illuminated windows, beholds the food-crazed insomniac pensively brooding around a desk of crumpled and disorganized papers. I told myself I’d a write a book one day, but procrastination takes it’s toll every so often with excuses as to why I shouldn‘t waste my energy writing like, I‘m too busy or I’m too tired or—my personal favorite—it‘s not alluring enough, so why bother? I don’t even know what to name it. Locked In Reticence? How about, Tacitly Screaming: A Memoir of Anorexia and Social Anxiety? See, if the title isn’t even "alluring" enough, what makes me think the content will be either?

I take a small sip of coffee with one hand, and with the other, flip through the fifth edition of Understanding Psychology by Charles G. Morris and Albert A. Maisto in a reading-just-because frenzy. On page 509, an article about the compliance and obedience of the Nazi concentration camp would be an interesting read if it weren’t for the fact I’m entranced by the curve the ribcage and hipbones make on a man’s torso. What disturbs me isn’t the emaciated man staring desolately at the camera, but that I’m not at all disturbed and that somewhere in my macabre mind, I find his dying physique aesthetically appealing.

If every morning could be like yesterday, where it takes an hour and a half to eat a cup of dried cheerios, I’d probably be half the size I currently am now. If every morning could be like yesterday, where I read ardently in a state of transfixion, I’d probably be a lot smarter too. It’s funny how procrastination slithers it’s way into every aspect of my life. I mean, why can’t I procrastinate when it’s more convenient?

I was thinking about getting out more. Maybe I could go to the library and put a job application in. Shuffling the army and a job at the library wouldn’t be as strenuous as, say, the daycare at Gold’s Gym .. I could also maybe sit in the Murray Hill Theatre’s café where I can drink overpriced coffee and listen to hipsters in the Arizona scene scream histrionically into the microphone while girls with studded belts ask, “Hey, what are you reading?”. It definitely beats Burger King. Conversing with infuriating customers who drone constantly about the six dollar value meal and make ordering a simple whopper some algebraic equation of fire-grilling hell really isn't socializing, is it?

But you know what? I’ll probably be too busy or too tired to do any of that, like I’m too busy and too tired to finish this entry decently.

an ink drop in myriad tapestries of blue and grey: silent, unmoving, empty of courtiers and their accompaniments. a pair of them, staring at the only thing at which there was to stare that wasn't trapped in static, the only thing that wasn't reminiscent of an out of date photo where the colours had begun to bleed into one another, instilling a false sense of near-life. but the window danced, awash with a slithering black light. berated by such a downpour of the ink reflected in those eyes the surface of the glass seemed to breathe with each smooth shudder of the sheeting liquid, until it didn't seem there was glass at all; it was only some dark sea listing just beyond the pale wooden frame.

what lay beyond that inconsistent threshold was something of constant consideration, the consequences of which were limitless layers of dust over the room's internal landscape. the rooms and hallways there seemed to wind endlessly within each other, lately proffering no more answers, and so became insignificant, rarely able to echo the passing of footfalls or murmur the touch of fingertips tracing paint. the worn spots along the walls were long abandoned.

now, instead, the entire world had manifested itself just outside it, teasingly playing like a waterfall of silk against the window. long fingers stretched out toward it; tips touched something cool and solid, and unmoving. the glass. skin paled slightly as pressure was applied for several long moments, and when contact was finally broken, the blood rushed back into is place silently. fingers curled and tightened against palm, nails gave birth to crescent moons in flesh, tendons carved mountains and valleys. without a second thought the terrain of knotted knuckles smashed through the glass, splintering it into stars that reflected the soft light of the room at a hundred angles.

the outside poured through, dousing hand and arm and running down to drip into a pool on the floor. the ocean that had danced along the other side of the glass was clear, the only colour lent it came in thin red ribbons, diffused from bright to dull, from crimson to pink to nothingness all in the measure of a few short moments. it was in this moment of unexpected translucence that the black mouth of the window came back into focus. fingers unfolded and another hand came up alongside the first, palms reaching out to rest on the sharp edge of the sill as body weight was shifted to lean forward, stretching as far as possible without concern for the deluge. above the sigh of the water, she screamed onto the stage.

i read today he's having a child.
i'm not going to pretend this doesn't feel strange, the end of things looming so closely. the end of something you haven't looked at in a while, but have, nonetheless, missed on some level inexplicable to your peers. i miss the friendship, more than anything; but it seems a mountain of change has grown beneath him. i don't suppose we really know each other at all anymore.

while the certainty that i would have to contact him to finalise things already weighed over me, the idea that he might have to do the same never crossed my mind. in the end, he stopped replying to my emails, and the thought of receiving one from him seems alien and somewhat unnerving. so now each day i will wonder, amidst all the spam and mailing list and impersonal email i receive on a heavily daily basis, what else will be there?

i let his birthday and the holidays pass without mention. i couldn't, this year, memories of those towns and those faces have been raised more articulately than ever as of late. he still has some of my things.

i am unsettled. unraveling, like the seams of today. there is a heaviness in the pit of my stomach that does not affect the way my pants fit, but feels as if it should. there are no regrets in romance, but love is a funny thing. it is hide and seek's uncontested champion, because even the strongest of us can never find it all to pick clean from our teeth and dig from beneath or nails. not once it is truly felt, in any way shape or form for some one or some thing.