There was a boy who once loved a girl but he stopped, mostly because that girl was bat shit crazy. Then there was the girl who was bat shit crazy and loved a boy, but then that boy broke her heart, and it was then she turned fucking insane.
The story continues. The girl was a lunatic for the next couple of months proceeding after the heartbreak. She has to deal with change, a change that seemed so simplistic and ordinary..point is, she didn’t want it. She loved the nights on the deck with her face nuzzled into his. She even loved the fights; they were passionate, exotic, his taste was addicting but settle, with each passing day drawing her in more and more. How do you say it? Love, maybe, questionably, it was hard to decide..
especially when she has to watch him with his hand grabbing her ass at the middle of the bar, in front of everybody. A sense of public knowingness flooded her, and at that point of realization did she come to the conclusion that she shouldn’t have done this. Why in god’s name would she put herself through this, so she got up, pushed in the chair, and flipped the table over with her hands.
She crashed all the glasses, silverware, little tinkles of stardust and magic and love that she, suddenly, realized that she would never have, couldn’t possibly have done. She tore off her clothes and exposed herself to the crowd. She told them this was the flesh in which the groom lost his virginity to, the man who loved her first, the man who would be a symbol in her life forever.
And then the groom pressed his hands upon her mouth and told her to shut up, that he was happy, really happy, and that he didn’t hate her. He was perfect.
And it was that night she killed herself.
And this, in fact, is the very moment in which I am born.
There is a certain comfort that I can’t ignore when I’m with you, and I hate to say it but I might be falling in love with it. I will admit that when your blue eyes stare longingly into mine I flush, mostly because I’ve never seen a person wanting me so much at one given moment; complete symmetry, complete connection. I love spending the long afternoons at your house after work, smoking weed and staring at warm walls with my head resting softly on your lap, with you brushing my hair with your fingers as you talk rock n’ roll with your friends, personalities that I absolutely adore. I crave your taste, even when I know your mouth spawns a stickiness that I will never quite understand..it frustrates me. You love the secrets I try to undercover. You love to be hidden from a dark reality in which I quickly too advantage of. In such a dense part of existence I escape through the security of your home; I practically live in it, with my clothes strewn all across the floor and lamp shades. You love to have me over, and when we really get fucked up you like fingering the lace of my underwear with that sly, devious smile that makes me lower my eyes and move into your embrace. And while you’re stroking my body with your hands and nestling your face into every crevice and imperfection on my identity I can’t help but let out a whole-hearty laugh, because finally I’m starting to feel like it is possible to love someone again for everything they are, and trust that with those hands he will not hurt me but keep me warm.
Life had a way to make the freckles of my nose southern constellations to your roaring facade, and how did such a lion hear the shrillest highs of my inconsistencies? I found you by the porch with your nickered wings, the ecstasy of your bleeding drove a man with a dream to a man with a situation, one that he cannot bear to hold any longer on the shoulders of his frame, let down your walls, let me in.
And we will talk, and you will pounce on every opportunity to rip apart the next prey, and every red flag will send me running. A man with a dream become a man with a situation, and a man with a situation became a man who loved a girl with the most resistant heart.
I cave into your trance just as easily as I caved into your arms, that pure cotton shirt, I remember it felt nice against my bare skin.
You took me out to the sunset and watched yourself interlace your fingers with mine, a touch so raw and powerful that it left my cheeks flustered just by the very act of it.
Your tension is my fear, and the way you snap at some of my simple remarks makes me hesitant to move forward. Your perspective differs from mine, two voices colliding, in some respects it makes the most beautiful, most illogical sounds.
What am I saying? What am I feeling? What am I believing? Things are so different now, colors so much more vibrant on these dull skies, a little boost within my mindset to carry on throughout the day, to smile, to feel acceptable.
You push me back though. I feel it. I know it isn’t right, crazy actually. You say the most absurd things somethings. It hurts. You don’t understand.
Who am I?
I don’t understand why I can’t be your princess, at least for a night. Treat me to something special. Prove to me you’re Mr. Right.
..a horrible friend!
You don’t like me, you don’t like anyone, you manipulate people to get your way. You only care about your image, you only care how they think.
But take a second and look in the mirror and see how fucking retarded you look
it’s sad because I just want to have philosophical talks with someone, not like a guy specifically, just anyone. I try and people avoid the subject and it’s gahgahgah why not
It’s ridiculous how nights can turn into wonderlands themselves, setting a tone of sensuality and pleasure that makes you forget about the swirlings of your mind through the pounding between your thighs.
It was strange too, that when we did turn the lights off and having nothing but the faint sigh of the moon’s light to guide us, that your face kept morphing. Nothing like your own, but resembling very closely to your friends, so closely that I choked for a second thinking that my naked body was lying across one of them while you were pounding on the door, screaming for explanation.
The night does strange things, so strange that you actually believe the weird absurdities. When you cradled me, the “I love you”, the slipping of you in and out of me while your dark, gorgeous eyes settled on the base of my cheek as you breathed softly into my earlobe. Telling me..reminding me..how much I mean to you.
I shouldn’t have believed it, I shouldnt have thought that you have changed, or this was becoming something beyond this fake seriousness that I believe we have been creating. More importantly, I shouldn’t have started crying of joy, because I couldn’t handle it when you saw those drops streaming down my face and your counterance held only a blank, confused expression while you curled your hand over the condom annoyingly.
You wanted me to be generic. You wanted me to reply so you could start. You want love but you don’t want to think of it, feel or, or express it meaningfully.
You love being a character that is so useless in my eyes.
You love pretending because you simply don’t have the maturity or wisdom to know any better.
I have such this hate for you but still I am wasting my afternoons cradled in your arms, cringing at your actions and bypassing the thought that I am dating only a child. I find comfort in it. Even though I know it’s all fake in the end, it’s nice to believe in the fantasy. The night time. The selfishness. Only for a moment.
Is it possible that I hate you so much that I love you? Or am I jealous of your virgin understanding of heartache and partnership? Do I find a boy in your eyes or am I avoiding the girl in me? Am I overreacting or was this never supposed to be happening in the first place?
But I must stop because the only person I want to ask for guidance is him (damn him him him, damn him and damn his girlfriend and damn for what he has done to me, making me so selfish in my actions)
The night is a strange thing indeed
It’s often crazy how the aspects of you relate very closely to him, and as time draws farther and farther, I yearn to find differences. No one wants a repeat of another awaiting nightmare, and I especially desire not to deal with those horrifics again. However, almost like a joke life had presented to me, I have come to realize you are nothing like him. And willingly I shall say that the thing I didn’t want the most is the thing I’m now screaming at you to become.
Your mind is a cloud of school-boy immaturity, and the words you say do not form as clever and superior in my head. You find intelligence in seperating your worlds from me, and when asked, you quickly develop a lie to set me back on a path you want me to walk on. You developed yourself in a persona that is far from reality. You bask yourself in illegal substances, not in a way of harmony, but in a way to form yourself into a character that you wish to be. You believe you are good in all the things that you do. You find creditability through drugs, not from the soul. Things are often a big deal to you, and when presented, nothing else matters. Your virgin mind has never been touched by heartache, loss, scars or rememberance. Problems are solved by just ‘forgetting about it’, emotional talks are out of the question. You find no peace in slow songs and beautiful landscapes. You do not know how to hold a body when needed, and you don’t care to learn. You are self-absorbed, childish, unthoughtful and grand in your own experiences. You are a boy.
A man is one to find himself humble, and knows that the things he says or does isn’t a show. He creates conjoining worlds so that others can experience every part of him. A man does not lie; he simply tells the truth and then follows through with the reprecussions. He does not find happiness through drugs, but rather creates happiness for himself through various arts. He bases a person off their heart. He will not have a virgin mind, for through all the years he has experienced, he knows that life is not a game and is awaiting sadness. Talks that bring up tears are meant for him to dry, not to forget, and most importantly, not to ignore. He knows when to stop. He knows when feelings are hurt, and he responds quickly to this action. He is not self-absorbed. He knows the world is a unforgiving place. He knows nothing is really a big deal, but most importantly, he knows the people that are worth making a big deal about.
You are simply a boy, and he was quite a man, and I can’t help but pity myself again in the fact that sometimes I form your face into his, and pretend that it was all last year again. Happy, bliss, and love; things I miss so much, things I want so much again, and things that I frankly might not ever get from you.
Life is not about falling in love, it’s about the choices you make for yourself to become a better person.
But I honestly don’t believe I can become a better person, and no one else believes what I believe, so I guess love is the only thing I can look forward to.