fume and fret. (![[info]](http://l-stat.livejournal.com/img/userinfo.gif){kind=small} feraldolce) wrote,@ 2009-05-06 10:50:00 |
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There is a Massive Bruise on my Left Forearm.
I live! I don't know why I thought it would be a good idea to hang out with little boys who are all talk, but it seemed like the better choice at the time. And now I'm all banged up and bruised over like we were fighting with swords in a glade somewhere, shoeless and with a kind of animal glint in our eyes. It was like a little dance, a fucking game, and now you have to take the wreckage and tape it all up, hope for the best. The best, the best, the very fucking best, and pretend it's not strange at all when loyalty leaves you on its doorstep. Like it doesn't twist in your guts like being betrayed or being turned away.
Because it doesn't really matter. Not really. I just know that it should, somewhere, to someone. If that someone was sane, maybe. The things I do, no one can know. The things I do, you would never even guess. And they parade around inside the place where my heart should be (IRONY? IRONY?) and make me smile sometimes, laugh others. Like I've l-l-l-lost it, baby.
I am actually working on LB12. I have 800 words and rising, if Axel would stop talking like a fucking idiot and Roxas would stop being a pissy bitch. They just do these things, and I can't stop them. But, god, this bruise on my arm is so alarming looking. It's so hot. I press on it, and my body curls against itself a little. Violence. Sex. They're almost a slant rhyme. Because I am easily wounded. Marked, branded, scared. That's almost a fucking Dashboard Confessional record.
I'm a hotbed of the seven deadlies these days, Wrath probably trumping all at the moment. There's just so much to be angry about. Drug addicts, for one, stupid fucking plagiarizing bitches, for another. Boys, maybe, on their bad days, and assorted other idiocies that I can't believe I waste myself on. I waste myself on you. Time, breath, patience. Such a fucking waste. The real question is why can't I stop? I can stop so many things. It's so easy for me to just turn off the part that cares, that wants, that needs. A practice in sensory deprivation. A practice in delayed gratification. For Yours Is The Kingdom of God. For yours, for mine, for how we are all falling down like ashes, ashes, and plagues, and apples with cloves stabbing them like an over eager halo.
Whatever. I used up all my images the first time I wrote. Used up all my dialogue and all my stories so that now all you get is a poorly-worded rehash of shit you've already heard before. Broken record, maybe. Or maybe I'm just too hard on myself. This is what I seem to remember: that "tokidoki" means "sometimes." Maybe. Sometimes. They aren't so different. So I wear this thing around my neck like a crown of thorns. A Crown of Thorns, just displaced.
Uhhh. I forgot what I was talking about.
I live! I don't know why I thought it would be a good idea to hang out with little boys who are all talk, but it seemed like the better choice at the time. And now I'm all banged up and bruised over like we were fighting with swords in a glade somewhere, shoeless and with a kind of animal glint in our eyes. It was like a little dance, a fucking game, and now you have to take the wreckage and tape it all up, hope for the best. The best, the best, the very fucking best, and pretend it's not strange at all when loyalty leaves you on its doorstep. Like it doesn't twist in your guts like being betrayed or being turned away.
Because it doesn't really matter. Not really. I just know that it should, somewhere, to someone. If that someone was sane, maybe. The things I do, no one can know. The things I do, you would never even guess. And they parade around inside the place where my heart should be (IRONY? IRONY?) and make me smile sometimes, laugh others. Like I've l-l-l-lost it, baby.
I am actually working on LB12. I have 800 words and rising, if Axel would stop talking like a fucking idiot and Roxas would stop being a pissy bitch. They just do these things, and I can't stop them. But, god, this bruise on my arm is so alarming looking. It's so hot. I press on it, and my body curls against itself a little. Violence. Sex. They're almost a slant rhyme. Because I am easily wounded. Marked, branded, scared. That's almost a fucking Dashboard Confessional record.
I'm a hotbed of the seven deadlies these days, Wrath probably trumping all at the moment. There's just so much to be angry about. Drug addicts, for one, stupid fucking plagiarizing bitches, for another. Boys, maybe, on their bad days, and assorted other idiocies that I can't believe I waste myself on. I waste myself on you. Time, breath, patience. Such a fucking waste. The real question is why can't I stop? I can stop so many things. It's so easy for me to just turn off the part that cares, that wants, that needs. A practice in sensory deprivation. A practice in delayed gratification. For Yours Is The Kingdom of God. For yours, for mine, for how we are all falling down like ashes, ashes, and plagues, and apples with cloves stabbing them like an over eager halo.
Whatever. I used up all my images the first time I wrote. Used up all my dialogue and all my stories so that now all you get is a poorly-worded rehash of shit you've already heard before. Broken record, maybe. Or maybe I'm just too hard on myself. This is what I seem to remember: that "tokidoki" means "sometimes." Maybe. Sometimes. They aren't so different. So I wear this thing around my neck like a crown of thorns. A Crown of Thorns, just displaced.
Uhhh. I forgot what I was talking about.
