Always losing something...

I can't figure myself out. I can't figure yourself out. You can't figure myself out. You can't figure yourself out.

It's enough to make one insane.

I don't often need lectures on how to fix these little emotional problems. I don't often look for you to fix them.

I often need soothing little noises and an "I love you" in place of "why do you do this?" and "here's why you don't feel well..."

I often need you to be there. I often need to feel loved...just loved. It happens when we're sharing air -- so why is there an obvious void when we're miles apart? I don't understand.

Am I adored because of convenience and a lack of alternate entertainment?

I did very well in the last month and half. If I fall a little now, will you help me...or will you continue to show me contempt?

I am hurting very much.

This morning I realized that you have contempt for me.

"Sticks and stones are hard on bones
Aimed with angry art;
Words can sting like anything
But silence breaks the heart."

Eraser-face

Dear Jessi,

"My shadow's

Shedding skin and
I've been picking
Scabs again.
I'm down
Digging through
My old muscles
Looking for a clue.

I've been crawling on my belly
Clearing out what could've been.
I've been wallowing in my own confused
And insecure delusions
For a piece to cross me over
Or a word to guide me in.
I wanna feel the changes coming down.
I wanna know what I've been hiding in

My shadow.
Change is coming through my shadow.
My shadow's shedding skin
I've been picking
My scabs again.

I've been crawling on my belly
Clearing out what could've been.
I've been wallowing in my own chaotic
And insecure delusions.

I wanna feel the change consume me,
Feel the outside turning in.
I wanna feel the metamorphosis and
Cleansing I've endured within

My shadow
Change is coming.
Now is my time.
Listen to my muscle memory.
Contemplate what I've been clinging to.
Forty-six and two ahead of me.

I choose to live and to
Grow, take and give and to
Move, learn and love and to
Cry, kill and die and to
Be paranoid and to
Lie, hate and fear and to
Do what it takes to move through.

I choose to live and to
Lie, kill and give and to
Die, learn and love and to
Do what it takes to step through.

See my shadow changing,
Stretching up and over me.
Soften this old armor.
Hoping I can clear the way
By stepping through my shadow,
Coming out the other side.
Step into the shadow.
Forty six and two are just ahead of me."

Sincerely, Jessi.

Undrafted

Protect me from what I want.

Protege moi.

Mismatched bottle-gaze

Push me under. Pull me further.

There's nothing left for me to do but snap at phantoms and etch (with needle-y fingers) a thousand vitiating hymns into granitized guilt-trips. There's nothing left for me to do but weave into smoke haloes the subtle threads of a paean decaying.

On the inside, umbrella-eyes opened under a mendacious mass of tears shed for love lost through labyrinthine miscommunications.

"And I've been waiting for so long..."

Tinkerbell smile

I'd like to say something, finally, that is beautiful and eloquent and lyrical. I'd like to be able to craft sentences like spun gold, to hone my delivery with a knife-sharp precision -- I'd like to feel content in the knowledge that I'd added another glass bauble to the exquisite string of jewels that constitutes "being." I'd like to be able to wring such emotion from individuals so as to leave them speechless; I'd like to be able to soothe ache, to cure sorrow, to seed solace. I would like, above all things, to evoke in other minds the imagery that constantly taunts me with indescribable qualities.

How utterly horrid it is to feel nebulous, indefinite feelings that flash silver underbellies in the dark -- and then disappear when language attempts to make of them sensible descriptions! How alone it makes one feel to know that there are emotions roiling beneath the thick surface of a self-imposed silence...and that there are no words (nor were there ever) poignant enough to describe the strangeness. And such strangeness it is! This strangeness continues to make me think -- continues to make me feel -- that I am slowly, gradually, hopelessly losing my mind. I am ever and always the complacent, suffering victim. I am ever and always a prisoner of myself.

Don't talk to me anymore of absolutes and strength. Don't talk to me anymore of a principle duality. I'm so tired of attempting to fix myself; I'm so tired of attempting to rouse the old and buried qualities that I once possessed. This me that I have allowed myself to erect, erstwhile unknown (and never dreamed of), has quickly and completely taken over the blue-eyed cocoon. Don't talk to me like I'm a child. Don't tell me that I am needed and adored -- daily conversation is a dreamt up thing and I am loved only when the contours of my face are bathed in your little lamplight.

I am losing my mind. It's a perpetual drowning. A numbing procession.

My sister's left again. I am alone again. The high and low record sounds (with their bodiless discussions) invade my solitude again.

How warm and secure and content I felt while she was here! She calls us twins...she calls us "bound souls." I call us matching pieces to life's puzzle. There is no one on this earth with whom I would discuss the intricacies of pain and pride -- no one except for Amanda. And now she's back in Texas, and now I sit in my room with a book and a broken bottle, and now I confide my secrets to the dark air surrounding a disheveled bed. I am a doll with yarn hair and glass eyes; I am a sweet and plastic-limbed thing; I am guilty, I am purposeless, and I am unnecessary.

I am losing my mind. Bet you didn't know. Ting-a-ling.