Take Another Look











What the hell was that last post about? Something subliminal that’s for sure. I haven’t felt like I could write for a long time. It’s been inside me, outside me, skin flaking like lost times spent that were invested in nothing, I thought the more you invested the better your returns, if only I could read silences as well as psychics read read tarot cards. If only I could read my pain the way people read maps. Too many if onlys, I know. I know what it feels like to go away too. I know what it feels like to avoid the same phone call from the same person for days because you don’t want to deal, and yet you, who told me to tell my mother I loved her, don’t answer me. I did have a good talk with her. And I always think I have a good talk with you but then a day later I don’t know because the unsaids crawl up to me like alligators and I can’t escape their gaping teeth. I don’t know what it feels like to avoid a phone call because you do like them, so excuse me for reading the wrong thing into an interception- I mean blockage- I mean lack of communication. I think maybe it was a good idea, this break, this space, and I try enjoying the space. But the fact that everything is empty, that there isn’t even a small five word message in my inbox saying “I’m still here,” followed by something “NICE” is everything to me. Maybe those nothings shouldn’t mean anything at all but they are the world to me. So I’ve lost a world. I’ll find a new one. I just can’t deal with this uncertainty. So if I do something wrong I feel bad about later, and believe me, certain men have a way of making me feel like I SHOULD hate myself, even though I don’t, I love myself, but I know that I have a hard time saying no, and I like a challenge, and sometimes those things add up to something precarious. I think you know what substance I’m floundering in, so why won’t you tell me? I’ll understand no matter what, so obviously you aren’t looking for my understanding. What is it? You can tell me. You can tell me. I’m really good at holding people. Too bad nobody makes use of the things I’m good at. I guess this silence was good for getting away from the things that I thought mattered that maybe don’t. But it’s lasting too long and since I’m extremely moody- the girl next to me in line claims I’m bipolar “just like her” but it’s only another term I don’t believe in. I think it’s equivalent to stating that we are human. The most I can do is just continue to write things down. This could all be my fault, i think at the end of my day. It could all be because I don’t have the right job right now. This could all be because I lack self-restraint. But then I don’t think I really think that because I don’t live in a state where I blame myself, I just live in a place where I am ready to blame myself earnestly, and that leaves me wide open in conversations where I don’t say what is going on, and that was all I meant, but those scattered messages that you used to attempt to answer just stay there like wounds waiting to be touched, or healed, or merely noticed.

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