(How We’re All Intricate, Colossal Levels of Fucked Up and I’m Still Learning How to Deal)
I slept through most of yesterday because I couldn’t stop thinking about the tsunami kind of damage I can do with enough alcohol in my system and little disasters like tectonic plates kissing with enough passion to knock me crying to the floor of a dirty bathroom in the only restaurant open at late hours in Atlanta. The human condition awes me – breaks me sometimes. I woke up to the first thought of you in months, apropos of nothing, and I imagined the day I would know, finally, and only if just for a stolen second of the kind of bravery I’ll never have, the cartography of the skin that stretches over the landscape of your lips. I’m breaking because I don’t think I even remember how your voice sounds when it says my name, and let all records show in bright colors and captioned pictures that I don’t even replay the conversations we had in my head anymore, but the desperate, mediocre poet in me is still falling asleep and dreaming of the softness the last syllable of every word has when it leaves your tongue, and mostly I just don’t understand, can’t even begin to grasp the kind of things that twist and grow and die and live inside of us. I don’t understand how the people you tried so hard not to love, not to count their crow’s feet to can still smile at you in your dreams so you’re counting the lines with your fingers anyway, barge through the door of your subconscious even after you’ve learned to let them go. Or how one week I’m writing about self respect and learning to love this wreck of human self and the next I’m crying to a mirror about things so deep I don’t have the lungs to dive after and forcing myself into sleep so I don’t have to spend another second conscious in a body that I’m sure, just like I was three weeks ago, I will never learn to love or respect. I don’t understand why I speak about unhappiness with an air of black holed surrender, then go on to collect sad songs in an ongoing itunes playlist and keep the most tragic of books and movies on a shelf fingers will grasp the fastest, am not even sure I want to know the kind of monsters that crouched under your bed until they could make their way inside and leave you panic attacked, panic wrecked at a concert while I looked you in the eye and assured you your heart wouldn’t burst inside your twenty year old body, because you were teary eyed and voice shaken sure that it would, and your pills weren’t with you and you’re not supposed to have them with alcohol, and I’m just wondering how people even conjure up energy anymore. How we can exist as such messes, happy and unhappy, broken and unbroken, come out of a thousand little and monumental wrecks and still live on this earth as people who laugh at jokes on the TV before work and think about kissing strangers at a bookstore.