neither of them will ever know how it slices me up and tears and digs and digs and fucking digs into my chest my bones my body all the soft tissue inside to sit here having them both ask questions like "do you think we'd make a good couple?" and "do you think she really loves me?" and "do you think i should give him a chance?" and knowing that no matter what, i have fucking lost the game. i am absolutely nothing now and everything i ever felt for him is nothing now but barbs and cleaving wire cutting cutting cutting and i'm choking back tears as i whisper "yes, give each other a chance. be careful and listen and speak up " and telling them how to love each other properly.
i can't handle this but everyone already knows i'm going to do my damnedest to help them because lol that's how it always goes.
does he know how fucking deeply he's cutting me?
she does. she speaks of her guilt, but him- it's as if he doesn't realize that every word he speaks to me of how much he loves her (what about me?) and how he's wholly committed to her (what about me?) and how he hopes she trusts him (what about me?) is fucking killing me.
i am going to be sick.
something stirs beneath the plates and loops of bone barely visible beneath my skin.
my heart plods slow and surefooted along in its measured path, pausing for a moment before continuing on its endless way.
i think i am breaking.
i cannot tell.
something tastes bitter in my mouth today but not physically.
i'm reading a book that could have been written a whole lot better than it was and makes me wonder how it got published considering, but then again that's the way the entertainment industry works these days. trash the talent and make the mediocre household names.
art is a cancer patient dying a slow and agonizing death and all the doctors turned their heads in the direction of football games.
i feel sick and ghostlike.
i wonder what other people are doing, thinking, feeling right now; i wonder where they are, and if somewhere somebody is having a problem that i could help with if i weren't looking over my shoulder.
it's scary to imagine that i'm ignoring someone in need. but isn't it vain to think i could be the one person who'd give them whatever it is they needed?
i don't understand how you're supposed to know the difference.
maybe i should just go watch television or something.
whatever.
it's half past three on Monday morning and I'm cold as living hell in my dirty t-shirt and underwear, and i can feel the pain creeping slowly back into my shoulder again oh no oh no oh no, i think and it's amazing how very literaly afraid i am of that pain and how frightened i was when it clawed and clawed and fucking clawed into my muscles last night goddamn. i keep thinking of taking another painkiller. i might.
finn is talking to me again tonight and it turns out he's FTM too which is funny. it's really funny.
for some reason the LJ buttons look extremely smudged like india ink and i wonder how the fuck that's possible on a computer but then again with this desktop you never know. you might as well expect everything.
godspeed is playing and I'm remembering already why anberlin is important and why i lay in bed two nights ago and felt myself sink deeper deeper deeper into the mattress until i was falling up into the sound of stephen's voice and those drums and that bass and of course the guitar but guitar is meaning less and less to me lately as bass and drums take over. things that cannot be seen prevail over the visual and really you can't see bass or drums. you either feel them or they aren't there, and they're there for me, vibrating the walls of my veins until it's like melting snow inside my skin so warm and thick and fluid on and on and on music going in and out of me. i'm a catalyst.
my mind is running slower than usual. i don't know if i like having it run at a normal pace.
yes, here it is , the pain is now digging a finger into my shoulder, hello epiphani i'm back.
not for long, bitch, my mother has pills.
I seem to be in the midst of one of those peculiar times I have when me and me aren't the same thing; when each gesture, each movement I make seems to be independent of my mind or intentions. I stare at my hands and I flex my fingers, turn my palms outward, inward, lift them, drop them, grip things...and none of it makes sense in the sense that it's me doing it. I know it's me, but it doesn't feel that way, and when I rotate a shoulder, press my palm to my cheek, tap my fingers-- it all seems amazing to me, like I've never become aware of my own mobility before.
I feel myself tugging and tugging against my skeleton, against my skin and muscle and bone, trying to free myself from this...body.
More and more it begins to feel just short of a physical sensation: as if I am a whole other entity inside the flesh and bone thing that is supposed to be me, and I'm growing claustrophobic inside it, enraged and frightened at being held down so tightly when all I want is to get out of here.
Sound-- music -- is the only thing that makes sense when this happens. Music is hands gently pushing me down again, folding me neatly inside the body and pressing my essence into all the cracks and creases and crevices until the parts are all sealed together enough to allow inconspicuous movement, and I conduct a sort of awkwardly fluid synthesis of part and intention passing all too well for human.
Girl.
The word slips further and further from me each day and as much as I would like to grasp it and absorb it into myself until it spreads and sinks into the crevices of my brain and bones and I become it-- for the sake of my mother, my friends, for my life itself maybe-- I can't.
Girl feels like a language I cannot learn; I'm missing the synapses that allow it to connect. There's no outlet for the plug. No receptors for the signals.
I'm a freefloating amoeba thing, unisexual, unisomethingorother unlabeled and shuffled around each time I change my clothes: shorts on Thursday, a dress on Friday, a dirty t-shirt and a filmy skirt that slits up the front today.
The ruffle at the bottom of that dress feels like submission.
The swirl of this skirt around my legs feels like what it is.
I am disconnecting and I don't know if it's from my sex or from my body and myself as a whole and goddamn it I don't want to hear this song.
I'm cold.
I need someone to push me back inside my skin before my mother notices me floating in the air and calls the cops.
calm
crushed
irritated
because there is no furious.
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