theallconsumingvagina

the paint begins to splatter the wall
2004-05-26 21:28:06 (UTC)

question:

i feel like a second hand shirt. or the leftovers on someone's
saliva-tickled plate, wih the fork dangling off the rim and resting
mostly on the stained table cloth. no drop that, i am the table cloth.
i am scrunched up and taken out to be shaken after every meal,
washed at the end of the week to be reused again. just lay on me,
and lay on me again- lay your hot plates of excuses on me again
and i swear i will unravel to a mess of off-white polyester strings
before you- i will go back into MY OWN FORM and claim myself
back again- as the shapeless, loveless thing. i will be a pile of
uselessness to you because i tire of pretending to be of sense to
the world. fuck purpose, fuck living a moral life, fuck ___. don't tell
me that i'm special because i know you tell everyone that, don't
sway me into thinking you have no one else because i know you
have everyone else to fall back on- you act like you don't know
anyone, like you need me but you, in fact, don't. i say fuck being
your security, i'm sick of being a railing. i need my own godamn
crutch you know? you haven't read my thoughts, you haven't
sensed my hiding spot- the one i delve into when you ask me: is
that alright with you? OF COURSE NOT. what the hell, do you
think i'm superhuman, do you think i'm a professional rag? i may
say it's okay but do you think my emotions follow my mouth? there
were nights when i'd cry myself to sleep because i was so lonely
sleeping in the same apartment as you. did you even hear a
wimper? did you hear a single breath? i'm glad i can be your best
friend, your best roomate- whatever you want to sprinkle over it-
whatever, but what are you talking about when WE NEVER SEE
EACH OTHER? i feel like you don't exist anymore, i feel like you're
trying to make me an entity of yourself like a blind person molding
her own face into a used block of wood (b/c that's all she knows), i
feel almost uncomfortable around you because i don't know what's
going on anymore- i have to get to you through livejournal for
chrissakes. i mean, you are so adaptable, you find other journals
and spaces to write in, you have almost replaced this stolid, black
and white, courier new font, slot of a diary with something else. i
stopped writing altogether- you started again as if nothing had
happened, yes this is fine because i didn't let you know how much
that felt like shit but i need to stop this pattern of subjugation- this
cycle of me-wanting-to-be-neglected-because-that's-how-it-is. i
don't know, i just feel so old. i don't feel new ever, i feel like an old
widow, a single-mother, i feel like one of your moods, i am there for
you to feel creative, for you to feel artistic or something- 'i crave
creation' and 'i miss that emotional release'; yeah, well if you really
did you'd follow your urge instead of the path of least resistance.
stop talking to me as if i was the cause of you not seeing me, i
quote your nag: "i miss you" well then reserve time for it: surprise
me, say something, i'm sick of being the waste basket in which you
dump all your social qualms into, i'm sick of being your godamn
councelor like i am everyone else's, i'm sick of being the one who
will always understand and always listen, i just want to be young
and new again. maybe i'm overreacting to nothing, maybe i'm an
ungrateful bitch. maybe i don't even feel what i felt when i began
this entry. maybe i'm stone cold now that i've let it all out- maybe i
can't even justify what i've written so far because i don't
RIGHTFULLY FEEL IT like i used to (time cools off feelings i
suppose) but either way: i'm going to click "submit" because its
something godamnit-




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