2/5/25

it is not flattering what i feel for you. were i (or you) to peel back the layers of my skin you might justifiably recoil.

this time i will be silent, i will let him be around me, and later i will let him leave too. if that should be the way of the world then i will wash my hands of this. what if i am only nervous because i already know the sweet ending? i am impatient and exasperated and just want to be retreating all the time now.

 

2/6/25

don’t let the light in his eyes get your hopes up. don’t let the smile in, that particular poison in the bloodstream. maybe he is just kind and you have only dealt with sleeping or ruinous cruelty before. still, what is stopping me from pulling this man into the abyss, with me? who even cares what would become of me? what if i suffocate him gladly and take us away into my regions and occupy him forever?

what if i wear dresses, become beautiful for the rest of my life, feminize myself, brighten the screen around my body and make you look at me as you never have? what if i make me full of sunlight so that you can lean your face toward me and at the same time be constantly afraid i could kill you? what use is beauty if it never ensnares like that? what use is beauty if it only frightens away like i have. maybe i am of no heaviness to you at all, weigh no consequence to your future. maybe i can only manage to manipulate this moment, maybe i don’t touch you ever.

jesus. holding a space in your future for a human-shaped carving is an absolutely wicked concept and i want no part of it. it makes me sick because i have not had it. but that is my wound and my road to overcome when it gets here.

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so i’ve confirmed. there is no such thing as soulmates. there is only ever an awkwardness and an awful fitting together of things and the non-intuitiveness and the racking of our brains for the right thing to say to make the other’s eyes light up because what the hell else is it all for. these moments already sweetly and viciously passing. oxygen worth nothing except for that one split second of human joy we might arrange and exchange in our human consciousness. maybe humans aren’t meant for jack shit. for any kind of goodness. because. it will never be natural for me.

but what if we could stumble our way into this foolishly and still manage to make some small college poster and tack it up on a wall? or a ten-page paper or a thesis or maybe what about a mural, of us? something self-explanatory. what sort or crowd could we attract? i want to tell them i can’t bear the short bursts of desire. every creak and tick in my body aches for peace, i swear by it. and so what is this? what have i done to myself? all the cells here are writhing with sickness. i am rejecting the idea of soulmates now because of one conversation and because now i don’t believe love is inevitable. i don’t think we deserve or are entitled to anything just because we are here.

daydreaming about a future moment with someone un-guaranteed, didn’t i do that once before? didn’t it fail in front of me? didn’t it bring me to a future where i stood solitary with my melted hopes? didn’t it leave me more alone of myself than anyone should ever be? this is a timeless problem. there is a never any solution.

 

2/7/25

here is this horrible situation we are stuck in which haunts me which i shall make haunt the reader, which is: why do sexy people choose sexy people. ok. that’s it.

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just give it up. love cannot take you by the hand and get you to the other side of this dark waiting tunnel. walking forward is the only thing that preserves you. even if it is endless. it is the only thing that saves the sickness for another time. maybe a generation after can break this from our blood.

this is the life and the only state in which i pray to god so deeply to get me out of this, of this passiveness, the immobility when he confronts me, the helplessness injected in me which startles me, captures and twists out my gut. this is the only place i pray to god to spare me.

i told myself one night that i, i don’t think i actually want love. i think i want love because it’s the typical narrative of a 21 year old student. but it really is terrible. i am in constant pain because it is the beginning stages and in the beginning stages i never have any right to demand your nearness. maybe out of defense i choose not to believe in soulmates because i don’t want to think they exist and they still haven’t found me. it is conscious; it chooses not to find me. i’m sick, my head’s pounding

who even knows what i am. who even knows if you can see me through the maneuvers of time i drag myself through. the different versions of myself. my different states. maddening states. a writer can’t help but sit and ruminate in everything they comes across, to touch everything in wonder and to hold it up and see it for what the world cannot. and curse it, curse the childlike wonder. curse the thing in me that always wants to know what it’s like. what is it about love that gets me so up and about and twisted and wringing my hands and wanting to twist my own heart out for being constantly short of patience with it?

you smiled when you saw me on my computer like you knew in that moment i was writing about you. and uninterestingly i was. there is no hope for me; maybe i will always be like this, an unforgivable tattoo grinding my bones together in the same pattern until it makes me nauseous. i must get out of this state and so i write to a point of oblivion. i must expel it, reverse it from me like a stomach virus which has the head hanging over a toilet bowl. maybe that’s what it takes to unbraid a human from a human body, which has gotten wedged in the subconscious brain. drowning it out by either toxic or healthy means. alcohol or writing. falling into a pointless stagnant stupor or spending time with friends in a place my brain can’t reach me.

my fucking hands. jumping on opportunities. disguising themselves with hands hovering over a keyboard, supposedly shaking from a coffee-addled anatomical nightmare. fuck this, honestly. i want love. i am sick with it this time of year.

loving someone is so futile. i’m sorry god i know that’s not the conclusion you wanted me to come to but what is the point. there are just bags under my eyes. my chest is spazzing the fuck out for no reason and the god up there is being awfully suspicious and quiet while i am sending side eyes and negative energy that now is not the time for spirituality. just tell me it isn’t him and i’ll move on, as you wish. with love though of course.]

i wish i could leave these stages just as quickly as i entered them. i wish i could remember that i do come out of them alive, though i become a frankenstein, becoming more un-alive after every experience. many people think they are insane and they are big in the universe in their insane-ness. but i feel i have displayed it here, laid it out for you to form your own judgment. my heart is pounding ridiculously — ridiculously, you know.

a five-page paper of feverish prose because you have found yourself back in some familiar recognizable place as two years ago except that time wasn’t real, except this time might be just as unreal (editing this, it was). remember even if your feelings are aligned does not mean god has willed it for you. because love exists i know god is cruel. when will the all-knowing give in to my vision?

maybe god is right though. maybe a man shouldn’t give himself to me. maybe i need to stay away from everyone and i’m not cut out for it and none of you are cut out for me right back. is my prose proof of your brilliance or of my illness?

i lie and say i use writing to cope but perhaps i am using it to stall. to stay in it longer. if i sunk my fist slowly into my chest like one would in a pool to watch the ripple effect, i would find somewhere how awfully scared i am. i am still in my child’s body. still childish still somehow scarred, curled up in a ball half afraid to take hits from the well-meaning but cold world. maybe my brain sought out yours so you could give me that particular kind of pain again. with you this time i thought i had left my pattern behind. are you so evil that you were made to be the one to make me relive it? where tf is this coming from

ok maybe it is all out of me now

 

2/8/25

writers have to be such liars in order to be believable, and how’s this for one: i’ve realized i am the evil one. i am the one who chooses a victim, i latch on to a person and god agrees (i don’t know why), god knows i’m sick and must be appeased, this must be what it is, to show me it is a terrible ordeal to be me and for me to love that which is innocent and good. teach me then to give up. throw it in my face. god is giving to you the blessing of knowing when a problem arises, you are the source of the evil. i know and it’s happening all over again like a nightmare