I wish I could write a book about.
The way I feel.
The way I love.
The way I dream.
And all that makes me want to die.
The way I hope.
The way I fall.
The way I battle.
The way I strive.
The way I celebrate.
And the way I smile.
The way I touch.
And all the things I sense.
The way I cry.
The way I hate.
The way I curse.
The way I paint.
The way I taste.
And all the things I do.
The way I smell.
The way I lough.
The way I smoke.
The way I fly.
The way I scream.
And all the things I’ve said.
No matter the size. Or the number of pages. Regardless of the cover.
Written in a lifetime. Black on white. On paper. Somewhere in-between the shelves of the library. Where I exist. And you are sitting on the floor. With messy hair. And thoughtful sight. Looking at me. While folding the ends of the very same book. Creasing. So you could remember what is important. Bending the paper. Until there’s a crack. Something that will never heal. Because paper can scar too.
I was thinking about you today.
And how we met.
How we kissed.
About your scent.
How you smiled.
And about your eyes.
That made my whole body horripilate.
But I do not want to think about you at all!
And I am not writing love poems.
If only I could stop…
Applying lip balm under my eyes.
Facial cream on my brush.
Shampoo in my eyes.
Tears in my smile.
Sounds in my head.
Memories that scream.
Almost materializing what I fear the most.
Having you in my reach.
I recently discovered that I am happiest when I am being self-destructive.
When I have no desire to eat. When my head is so full of thoughts that my eyes are changing colour and I see things differently. When I am sleepless. And constantly awake. But I am dreaming of the impossible. When I can feel my every emotion at once and I choke trying to express it. And the fire bursts from my nostrils or turns into liquid gold leaking from my mouth. When I am drinking without getting drunk. Eating without feeling sate.
When I am ready to answer your every question and make a fool out of myself. But what an intoxicated fool!
Is it so horrific to be in love with two man at a time. How about three?
Isn’t it worse that you love me. And you are not doing anything about it.
Isn’t it worse when I blame myself…
I will tell you what is worse.
When you admit you have fallen for me. And the only one who slips is me.
When you look at me from a distance and don’t have the courage…To come closer.
When you try to think of a reason to dislike me.
When it pleases you to make me hurt.
When you try to forget me. And you used to be a friend.
Isn’t that worse?
Isn’t it the worst.
I heard you say that you enjoy the thought that the little ripped paper that you’re pouring your words on was once the tree in the branches of which I used to loose myself.
Isn’t that cruel of you? To take my favorite tree away from me. Especially now, when I am grown up and in desperate need to climb on it. To loose myself amongst the branches again.
And you enjoy owning a little part of it. A little part of me. And touring it up so you can pour words on top of it. Words that you never find the strength to pronounce. Torn pieces that you never send.
So I am left here without a piece. Without branches. With no leafs. Without words. Treeless.
Isn’t that cruel of you?
I must have gotten it all wrong. By this point I should have done so many things differently. I should have been skinnier. More tamed. Not caring about all the trivial things like moral, principles, passion, emotion. More wild. I should have had more sex and less thoughts. More memories and less goals.
I shouldn’t have been so ambitious. I shouldn’t have turned into such a perfectionist… Or been so scared. To dye my hair blue. To have a boys haircut. To pierce my bellybutton and then change my mind. To pierce my tongue and stick it out on every occasion possible. I should have turned out this way. So devoted. Considerate. Keen on keeping promises. I should have loved being a heartbreaker. Should have been a bit more superficial. A bit more carefree. A bit more relaxed.
I must have gotten it all wrong because I do not feel any pleasure in casual conversations. I do not mind being all by myself. All the time. And I guess I don’t mind hurting for I know that is the only way to be alive. To grow – stronger. Wiser.
Don’t get me wrong. I dream about enjoying myself as much as all the other young people out there. I just don’t know what is it that will make me feel joy, pleasure. Excitement. From head to toes. Apart from work, music, a good read or nature in the spring. The see in the summer and the summer sand that I want to disappear into.
Am I a dreamer. Am I a hopeless romantic. Am I subnormal in any way. Boring? Am I delusional. Am I weird. Extraordinary? Am I good or bad…Am I that different.
And for the pleasure of it all…or just out of love for confusion, I am both. Carefree and burdened. Wise and irresponsible. Young and mature.
Are you interested?
Heavy with experience I will come as rarely as a Blue Moon.
Forgetting all the things I could not do as the rest of the humans.
And I will give you everything that they took from me.
And I will take everything I wanted to give.
Will be indifferent to gravity. And all human things.
And I will love you because you know how to have me completely.
And you will love me, because I give you freedom.
And we will love each other, because we do not fear time.