Every Last Drop

God I want him like lighting like eyes rolling I want him bad, bad, honey, like every trashy novel like every blue sky in unsophisticated and illogical ways to roll with him it's prehistoric need, neolithic, and that's even wrong, that's not even true. Oh, baby. Like tingles on the bottom of my feet, like stupid girls in poodle skirts oh honey the way they want the backhand hairy knuckles gonna grow and smack them, gonna grow up, gonna grow up like me. Fuck, I want to dance with you. I want to fuck you, who am I kidding, with all of me, with every inch just eat me, just cut a hole and suck it all out until I'm an empty little box, then fill me up again. I want to be your empty little box, honey, honey, whore. I am yours, your well-scented whore, like something you'd buy in a country with spice in its name, back in triple-digit times. I want to dance for you, baby, writhe, baby, moan. I wish I could say I never wanted to sink my teeth into a pair of undeserving lips this much with a straight face. Can I run my fingers through your hair, darling, can I can I can I before I go just touch you a little bit? Just with shaking fingertips and you would barely  have to feel them. Oh, honey. Oh, you're steaming up behind my ribcage already you're filling me up already from so far away you make my legs feel made-up and my lungs popped.

Regression

I wish I could write stories like I used to. Feeling the same way and longing and admitting that I was longing, jesus christ it's all missing. And it's all wrong. And the second after it comes out it all sounds cliche but why the hell do I think it's going to break?

This isn't writing but honesty doesn't sound any better. I want to be fifteen again thinking about your driveway and having hope like summer. I always saw your house in the rain because that's how it was when I came here and it felt the most whole. I couldn't eat, I remember, because my dad had said something to me that day and I think I was obvious because I was fourteen and obvious. It was only after fourteen that I really started dreaming about you and never stopped. Except now that it's harder to dream like that. But I can see it: after a summer hurricane, all green and gray and humid and wet and lush, the kind of air you'd run your fingers over if you could, and beautiful, beautiful, alone. I wanted to curl up on your back patio naked and smoke a cigarette even though you probably wouldn't want to do anything like that. I want to fuck in your rickety single bed and find out what you're putting on your bedroom walls. Even now. Even though you fed me but I could never have fed you. I would have tried.

It's pathetic and it will not help. But at least it feels a little like the summer.

A Summer.

June 23, 12:50 AM
So I tried to take myself to somewhere where the silence was less painful, somewhere where many, more things than me were lost.

June 23, 12:52 AM
I cannot see the situations clearly, cannot say it doesn't matter.

July 4, 3:22 AM
It's a lie. You are real. I know. I shop and light up and talk to people. How could I be a fake? Unless they are all false and I am the only right? The only real? See: hubris.

July 10, 12:23 AM
I just want to write a beautiful story about someone like me dying. Maybe then my death, or my eventual descent into darkness, will be worth something.

July 10, 12:24 AM
Can block it out can block it all out with a song that flies enough to take my mind along with it

July 13, 7:46 AM
I am hungry. I am tried. I am missing him, and I just want to fly into different, better skin.

July 20, 12:59 AM
When you watch something over and over, you will eventually learn it or imitate what you see at the very least. In this case, the drug stimulates/unlocks whatever the hell those pathways are called (ask k) and helps you better imitate successful behavior. Also, where are the memories stored in the brain? Ask Emma. Are the two related at all ornear each other?

July 20, 1:10 AM
Because here's the thing. If it's all true. If the world is falling apart and in three years we're all going to be looting for food and killing each other over a gallon of gas. Then let's just live. Let's enrich our lives, through other sources and through each other. Let's let the little things slide. Let's drink and dance and play and fuck. Let's fuck a lot. Let's relax and do nothing together some days, because we can. Basically, let's make each other happy. Because if the past was wrong and the future will be worse, there is nothing more important than every single now in between, than sucking the last delicious drop from each second. And I want you, baby. I want you to help me drink.

July 23, 9:35 AM
I want your lips and tongue skating up and down my neck. I want you to throw me around until I'm dizzy, like the first time. And in return, let me care for you, in whatever way I can.

July 23, 9:37 AM
I present myself humbly here, as humbly as I can without being thrown off. And honestly, too, despite the possiblity of a similar outcome.

July 29, 11:36 PM
End it,open ended. She dies so they can extract the strain. In anyone else, it could take years for it to develop to that extent. Have to work on the logistics of that. Could work, could not. Dave gets mad, but it's still hopeful ensuing

August 26, 4:15 AM
I always do something wrong. Always. And that is why I'm alone. Probably. Left alone. Maybe I should live in portland. Maybe...i don't even know.

August 26, 4:20 AM
I hate failing. And he always makes it so clear when I have. Simple motives. I want to make people happy and I want them to love me back and hug me and hold me and see that deeply hurting part at the center of me and want to cradle it in their hands. God, I long for it. Because I'll give so much. I'll give every meager possession, all of me, as much as you want. If you just love me. If you just keep me safe inside your arms. That's all I want, is a hearth fire. A home inside of your chest.

August 30, 12:40 AM
God. Why couldn't I have known you before? Why couldn't I have known you before whatever fire in your center was extinguished? Before your voice deepened to bass with a single, threatening tone? Before the muscle fell on top of your bones in preparation for a collapsing world? I would have rather had you young and stupid with raw anger than stolid, assessing and cold.

There Is Probably A Better Way To Say This

I hate that anything you can use to unhinge from the world has to burn when you take it. Like ripping out stitches. That my pleasure can never be painless. Never. Is anyone's? I don't know. Maybe I'll break the glass open.

(I can't stop starving. But I'm not going to ask you to stop me; you can't stick out your foot and trip a city bus.)

I hate the little black bits that grow on my sides when you're angry, and I hate coming down from a high. I hate the way I have to ask over and over, because you only ever have to ask once. I hate this "you" I'm using, pretending I'm not talking to myself. I hate this futility, this inevitability, so I'll spell it out in ink.

But the hope, the hope's the worst. There's somebody inside my chest and it's all I want, to kill her. But she thrives and lives off of my dead everything. She's a sadist, and I am hanging new sorrows onto old ones, and she looks at them and she is happy. She looks at them and lies to me and I believe her, I believe her, because I told you. Everything else is dead.

Show

Everything is falling down, falling apart, and it's so beautiful. I want to sit in the center of the earth until the buildings and the stars do the same.

I am falling down and falling apart.

this is so drunk

but at least i have the sense to hide my face and use spellcheck because nothing says spellcheck like good sense

can't i just be a part of you please can't i just lay next to you for five minutes or maybe forever

my repulsive need

and you'll never want me now that i want you and you see it on my face

i guess i started wanting you worse

darling

repulsive

and i want you, i want you so terribly

hide my face

baby

it's like five years have floated to the surface

maybe it was all the rum

you see it on my face

it's just so longing

and soon you'll be not allowed all over again.

why did i never stop wanting you

and why did i start wanting you harder so far after the fact

and have you finally had the good sense

to get gone

and you can see it on my face

Cherry

Outside, the trees are perfect. They're flowering, and streetlight leaks onto every petal, soaking over them, more like warm honey than gold. It's almost a cliche, how black and stark and lovely they make the sky look, (like velvet, he told me, sneering a little). But then I get sick of looking at them and turn back to your thigh, your naked thigh, which is a new cliche in white. It surprises me, how soft, like I could sink my teeth in, and I do, and you gasp. You gasp in your white thigh and your white little shoulders.

I know that I am teaching you. You only want what I want: for someone who loves you to hurt you. Later, you will pull my hair, maybe, try somehow to hurt me. Try somehow to love me. You roll me onto my back, and there are the flowers and there is your face and every every every cliche. I reach up and smudge your freckles, lick them off my fingertips. They taste like cinnamon, but maybe that's just my imagination or the pills still tweaking on my tongue. Whatever it is, it's nicer. Better than his smirk, which always left my hands smelling a little bitter, like sour cream. What are you doing? Nothing. I'm doing nothing at all, and then I'd go back to kissing him. But the smell of it would still be there. I didn't know that he was going to ruin all of the better-tasting boys, the cinnamon-freckled boys like you.

And maybe you can tell, maybe you can see that I'm not moving with you, not contained in this black velvet box with you, that I'm flying to all different places, because you almost stop (almost), and you ask if I'm okay. You tell me that I'm shaking, which I already knew. If I move, the trees will fall down, I say, and you laugh at me, shush me, brush my hair out of my face because you think I'm high and rambling. But it's true, and it won't just be the trees. It'll be the windows first, peeling off like old stamps, after which the doors will teeter, stand in equilibrium and fall, slowly, leaving only solid brick behind them. Then the buildings will grind into nothing, sprinkling red dust into your hair, and then it'll all be over, it'll all be falling, the trees and the birds and the streetlights and finally the sky, the blanket-black sky, settling into us and covering all of the corners. You don't know this. I'm not sure if you could know it if you wanted to. So I keep quiet and you keep moving, rhythmically, doing slow and steady damage to my vibrating, unsteady world.