we never called eachother best friends. we never established any connection other than the one that was failing. a summer's distance didn't help that. but we knew that when it came down to it, if i was bleeding you would be bleeding next to me. and when we finally let our words slip from behind our teeth, it was over. it wasn't you, it wasn't me; it was us. and wether it was faking 'tired' over the phone or seeing eachother once a week just to get by, it was never enough. we have our addictions, our top ten picks to get ourselves to sleep. but it never really works. i woke up with a head(heart)ache every morning. and i still do. i don't think "i love you, but it's not enough." could ever be more true when it comes to you and me.

all the skeletons i know are trapped in closets, wearing watches and clutching clocks stuck on 11:11. dreamers and believers never die but the kids that stay hopelessly hopeful can only wish so much before it's 11:12 and everything is all over. it's funny how so many of us can put our hearts and hopes into a single minute. i went through our conversations before i let them go.

just once, i wish it was me, and not her. i can be the girl who would do anything for you, because you know i already do. i love the way your bones add up. i'm okay with a pen but never as good as you, or else i would have you too. i'm willing to go to bed tonight with anyone who wants to sleep through the rest of the winter, but only because you're just not tired enough. been saving this up for awhile on napkins and assignments. there's so much of me that wants to say, "it's not fair," but in reality, it is. things wouldn't be this way if it weren't for me. and you know i hate being the one who is always self pitying but it's all i've got left. i'm only the girl who's wrapped up in herself because i'm not wrapped up in you. and now i know how much you hate the truth but now is the time where it's just too hard to lie to you. i'm sick of fucking leaving because i'm not wanted around. and my head hates the way it's too hard to say anything.

lying goes with the truth, because i only ever did it to get the point across quicker. you used to call me a liar, a rotten bet. but then atleast i was your liar, your rotten bet. the key to your heart was the same as my favorite weapon, a pen. now that you've got it you can write me off or write me in, but it's all on you. because for me, it's always you. but on your end, i'm not so sure. it's complicated being a wizard but someone's gotta keep the words in check.

pretend always. see through/can't wait to see you. i think i got tricked into these side effects because something just isn't settling. but who am i to evaluate the knots in my stomach? not like a doctor could tell me anything i don't know. diagnosis: head broke/heart broke/love broke. keep moving along and let me know how it goes, catch me sleeping alone in your old clothes. love is a wish on the top shelf, you always looked so much better next to somebody else. 'hey sleepy, your eyes are pretty when they're that glazed over.' you stole my breath before i could catch it for myself. i could be as desperate and blue as you if i believed or cared enough. but i don't and that's desperation in itself. its funny how no one notices until you've become someone else.

and to think you wanted something more
in between the "drive me crazy"s and the weekends at home
weakened but not alone
covered up but not well kept
the secrets we sleep on will send us all to hell.
if you go down pull me with you
it's kind of like how i'd choose the idea of you over the real thing any day
or how your heartbeat is most steady with your face up staring at the ceiling.
we're days late and still counting stars
just to prove that we know who we really are.
he said he likes good things
i said i like the truth.
the moon only glows for you.

sometimes i want to be completely, retarded in love.
but most of the time i'm content with party crushes
and making my life seem like a movie every weekend.
don't let forgotten words bring your guard down.

i could use a "you."
sunny side up and suburban smiles
capsule filled arrogance
and backyard 'worth your while's.
we still hold hands through the night
and i know you really miss me-
i do too
it's alright.

it's funny how we always get caught on one side of the door or another. we're either too busy listening in or too caught up in not letting anything slip out. the keyhole is the traitor in this voyeuristic normality. together we both go down. and it all puts me back in the same state of mind, from "spent most of last night" to "i swear to god i'm through with this," it all starts to get tired. but not like your eyes, more along the lines of the 'fuck you' smile you sport so well. progress report: i could give a fuck less about your habits, both new and old. my heart aches in such a way that bogart would be jealous. and all i have is a new night to write about. i used to think it was cute when you held up two quarters every time the chorus played itself out but now it's feeling way too forced. i am the liar and you are just a party scar. is it too much to want to sleep next to you again?

after all of this you can't just go back to the half-empty glass. we are trapped in such a sad synchronicity. i've got new habits and loves once more, from stealing lines off of gravestones to sleeping on the floor in your room. you're 8 steps ahead when i am only 7 away. and as pathetic as this sounds i really can't lose you and what you do (to me). the nights are getting more blurry as the drunken stupor grows. your eyes are on me but you're always somewhere else, hands held under a neverending sky of "i wonder why" because you're trying to figure out where you went wrong. this is why i can never let go.

he picks locks off key and says, "this comes easier than you and me." this is who i want to wake up to in the morning.

existence is a touchy subject when it comes to you and me. and i've never been one for punctuality. the second hand chances are really getting old and i'm growing tired of loving you through keyholes.

sometimes i stay up late and read into our past, just to spark a few 6am smiles that won't get anyone anywhere. my life is incredibly sub par without a "you" to get entwined with. it's okay, i knew you'd be a no show. it's still "i'll see you soon" versus "can i call you back?" oh, and you know how "things" go: don't let go, don't hold on, don't say no. you're everywhere that i go.

i need something to get my mind off of everything.

you used to say "lying goes with the truth" long before i heard it on any unworthy car stereo. your fingers still drum the same old beat, though the nervous taps come off as warning shots more than conversation placeholders. you check your watch as if it's counting down, not passing by. i ask what's wrong, you respond with "the weeks," and i never quite got it until you were out the door. you are the disease that keeps me (from) l(i/o)ving. i am the patron saint that keeps you hanging on to keystrokes and headlines. you are still the liar, i am still the fake.

we were clockwork
until we were figured out.
we were the new craze.
it's no longer about me letting go,
it's about you hanging on.

our hands fit together like missing map pieces. connect the dots on each city that kept our synchronicity a secret. we were scrapped sketches and liner notes, forever overlooked. i'm sorry for the stabbed backs, the dotted lines, the "i'm just fine"s. i'm sorry for this curse, this wrap that is forever unbeatable. i'm sorry "true love" was just another escape route. but there's still electricity when we touch, there's still a heart on a doorstep somewhere hesitating to follow through on it's intent. there's still an unanswered question up for review. i wonder if the light we fall underneath will ever be right. i wonder if midnight will ever be more than just another missed beat. your smile lights up in cigarette moonlight and for green eyes. no one has ever truly loved me as much as i love(d) you. the wrongs and rights keep me up at night. like now, and every other time i've sat out a party on the couch. perfection is unplugged dylan, the early 90's, and bad intentions. i've seen what happens to your insides when she speaks. we were nothing before we went down in history as villains and thieves. in a time of war, we don't sleep, we just write. the same song plays on the piano that reminds you of the first downpour we shared together and though you say you love me i know you'd choose the fork and knife lifestyle before anything else. we could have aged together. we could have beat this.

sometimes it feels like there's no words left
or maybe they just don't mean enough anymore.
jealousy is "where eagles dare"
and the tip of my tongue that can still taste you
the opposite of uncertainty
the story of my life but for one night only

i dont have anything left

i'm in love with what you're thinking of.

i can't get my head out of the sky and back down to earth. back down to you. i only miss chances because i never bother to take them. i'm sick of writing. i'm sick of being so cryptic, yet i love it at the same time. i'm sick of losing friends to hummingbirds; more like bullets. i will continue to include you in the fictitious story that is my life. these are the in's and out's of everything i've ever written. the thing i'd like most in the world is to write pure truth, just once. but i'm just so good at lying.

lately my words have been outweighed by (lack of) actions, and i've been outsmarted by a mathmatician that my friend just so happens to be fucking. but something doesn't add up correctly in the grand scheme of things, or at least it didn't until some heavy breather asked me why i hated everyone. it was early and i hadn't slept in days so i had no witty remark or charming set of words for him, so i gracefully slipped away and out of his temporary history. take a chance on chances. find a new way to get stitched and save the affair for another day. baby, i can't culminate without you. maybe if we take one step from the locker room of our hearts and into a half hour of 'forgive and fuck' then our days won't seem so tired. i have thought about quitting, i tried it and quit it. it just wasn't for me. so let's drop this headache, relieve this anchor and forget about all the promises we made under full moons and guilty pleasure weekends. take the gold and show the gypsy who's in control.

rather be low than slow.

yesterday's never felt so desparate until today was almost over. but that's just how i live, and just how i love. so when i'm cheating mass on funeral fridays you can sleep in on the life you hold so dearly, i'll sit back next to lowered caskets and women who have arrived by broom. now i'm finally true, speaking new languages, meeting new you's to write about. but in the end, i still would have died for you. the only question is, are you still the same you that i would have died for? i guess we'll have to see next time you decide to dream next to me. the "i miss you"s never meant a thing, sweetheart.

my apology checks have been bouncing
but who ever said you could cash in
on saying sorry?

the street lamps and summer docks cast aside the caution of time. so stop wasting time setting back your crystal clock or bargain watch and get busy getting busy in back seats before the early morning catches up with you. you're destined to slip away every time, me- i'm sitting in the dark.

i can count the times we let our friends rust in the apathetic summer air and how many times i watched 'closer' on my couch without you. you were always so keen on sharing a lonely sky together and muttering some formalities under our breath but honestly that gets boring and i just needed consistancy back then. we used to kiss safe bets goodbye.

if you could see me now you'd really know that i'm not all that great without full moons and aligning planets. that i can always be found somewhere close by on a saturday night with soco amaretto & lime and that the predictability is what turns most people off, so with you it's a pinch on the arm just to reality check the fact that you're even looking.

the truth to all of this is i just want to go back to the night i stumbled off your property line and ended up at the quarry riverbank and you held my hand while our socks got dirty.

you always made me write in run on's.

every 'i love you' is just another text message formality laced in unpersonal hugs goodbye. but i wouldn't dream of speaking those words out loud with you around. not because i care if you hate it or not, but because i'm afraid you wouldn't even listen. maybe i got boring or maybe i just have been all along. somewhere along the lines, things just stopped making sense. (not that they ever did before, but i used to have a grasp on things). if this has anything to do with the countless times i've been caught.. then think about yourself and the way you move. maybe sometime you'll come around and get past the past parties and drives home in the morning. maybe sometime the weather will be as hopeful as it was years before. maybe sometime i'll get over myself and call you up but for now i'll keep you at a safe distance, a phone call away.   i don't have a problem collecting my sighs of relief and writing 'love' on postcards from boat trips between parted seas. i don't have a problem with kisses on the corners of mouths but i do have a problem with the subtle meanings they hold. i have a problem ranting and loving and understanding so i'm gonna stop before i get ahead of myself.

knuckle-white, starch-white, the exact color of the eggshells i find beneath my feet -- it's always the color of the canvases and answer boxes and papers i find before me. i find myself scribbling these thesis statements on lunch menus in hospital rooms, penning down concepts on napkins. i want to transfer these ideas onto paper through lines and value changes and color, but i just can't put my paintbrush to the paper.

i call in sick to find the time, to locate my misplaced motivation, and all i have to show for it are eyelids which feel like sandpaper. i have so much school work to do and i hope that whatever string of words i pull together will get me through the door -- but it's this very thought which paralyzes my brain process. my train of thought becomes a train wreck and i'm stuck on the first sentence for more than an hour. i tell my mother that things are coming along great, that i'm almost there, i'm just about done, it'll be any day now and it must be the telephone wires disguising my voice for me because i've never been good at storytelling.

i am clenched teeth and waking up to dull, throbbing headaches which last the majority of my day. the best part: it was just last week i was preaching that one shouldn't muddle everything good with the bad, things work out. i was saying how i wasted too much of last year with that, and look at me now: back to square one. look, even the headaches are back.

i feel disgarded by you. not so much that i'm completely gone but more like yesteryear's maps and atlases put aside in the den on the west wing. i have been explored, conquered, and understood. now there is a new "me" in my place. i would like nothing more than to go back to when this all mattered, when you and i mattered. back to when dial tones were nothing more than a movie past tense. when nights on the beach passing a flask didn't seem too far out of reach, and neither did the long drives in between.  you used to laugh at maps and the way i wrote about them occasionally, joking something like "when i'm sad i look south, but if i'm happy i look north. when i'm confused i look east or west, because i get them confused," and it never really made sense but it didn't matter because it usually trailed off in a whisper anyways. sometimes i wonder if you remember the time i guessed your livejournal password and +memoried the first time you wrote about me. don't you ever try and tell me who's been left bottomless again. here i am, two years late and nothing to show for it but hazy eyes and no travel plans.

still in love with bad ideas.

7078491244 if you ever need me. this journal is done.

each hour is mine to claim, and here i am: consistently distracted, or worse, too bored and agitated with things, to do anything but come home and sleep. there are good things, yes, and they creep up on me and the corners of my lips, but they disappear as quickly as these hours do. and there's nothing like sitting in a classroom and realizing that i don't know half these people's names. I don't know whats happening to me

then, there are days like today. when i'm more concerned about the grooves my skin is akin to, electric ideas, and the way old friends feel like old pennies on the railroad tracks -- lest the trains themselves. and i'm okay. and i'm okay with the way things are.

this page from the Great Gatsby that I found forever ago. I highlighted different areas of text to produce:

Little pig sausages even had a short affair with the mean looks on her vacation. (I took it upstairs for a conscientious hour but they never work.)

I began to like it at night and flicker of men and restless eye. I liked romantic women and I was going to know them, and they faded away in enchanted lonliness in solitary wasting.


My heart waited and laughter from unheard jokes outlined unintelligible gestures.
I, too, was hurrying toward intimate excitement.

For a midsummer I found her because she knew her name.
I wasn't actually in love,
but bored.

One day, I found a house party out in the rain and suddenly I remembered that night.
(there was a suggestion from a bad lie in the proportions.)
The incident had remained together in my mind.

(I saw that this was a code.



She was incurable dishonest.)

i build my story slowly,
increasing tolerance past boiling point.
i describe my fractures bone by bone,
disjointedly, to avoid
shaping the form of my skeleton.
two hundred and six broken bones
would send bystanders into shock,
they'd curl themselves away into
the nooks of their hearts,
turn their heads and leave
tragedy at the side of the road.

we focus on healing one break at a time,
though there are too many to fix
and time is running out.
no full body cast -
all we have are twigs and twine.
you do your best with knots and promises,
though you always leave by nightfall.

the sentiment i can stop whenever i want has become trite on so many levels. all around me are people either hurt by me or hurting themselves the same. i just want to lock myself up for a good long while because this is so fucked up, things are so fucked up, i've fucked up. what's worse, i still want the smooth sailing of the distorted waves before this ship realized it had capsized. and no, you don't know.

to the girl who asked me if this was typical of growing up, if it's the same fucked up life everywhere, i've come up with the answer finally:
dear fucking god i hope not, or this generation will fucking decay itself until we're all rotting before mid-life.

to the people who know:
whatever it was that i was going through that day, it doesn't much matter now.
things feel as harsh and trampled now, if not worse, as they were before.
and i feel like a monster just the same.
i'm so tired of this all and i don't think i have the energy (or motivation) to keep going
to keep trying
i'm just so tired