Maybe if I let myself go a little soft

you know, loosen up a bit, stop caring as much,

then everything else will follow from that.

Soft is a good word. Nice and warm

Not weak or offensive or tired

just simple and yielding and there.

Soft just is.

I'm so goddamn lonely.

And I can't just fucking let go

and be among people, as peers,

or as friends

that could possibly take me

to be anything other than a base

immoral

immature

bitter

sarcastic

profane

unattractive

rough hewn patch of a person.

I don't give them a chance

so why should I ask for one in return?

Warm bodies to stand in for friends.

I just want their representation there

for me to turn to and smile at

sincerely, but emptily.

I'm just getting along

until the next time my hibernation ends

and everyone else crawls back in their caves

right as I'm emerging.

What even is winning. It's cold.

I have a right to be sullen

I have a right to be a lot of unpleasant things

that I complain about other people being.

I don't mind that these things contradict each other

because they're both true.

I hate them, and I sometimes hate me.

But that's the way it has to be

if I'm going to be happy and free

inside the tyranny of my anger.

You wake up at three

and prop yourself up on your shoulders,

shrugging the sheets down your front

and staring at the wall in front of you.

Maybe if you stare long enough

you will tunnel your way

through the brick and mortar

and see the bright air

that will remind you

of all the time still left in the day.

Barring that, there's just

the yellow overhead light

that you haven't even bothered to turn on

for thirty whole minutes.

You roll like an oil slick

out from your cocoon and over the edge

to spin circles on the ground,

noting the gaps in the poorly lain tile.

You flop onto your side,

contemplating the pros and cons

of lifting yourself off of the floor.

You won't be hungry

for another hour at least.

Maybe it's time

to take a stroll

to a quiet spot,

where everyone passing

will just think you're waiting for a friend,

where you'll gain license to just

sit

and sit, and sit,

without this funny feeling you've got

about laying here

and staring at these chair legs right now.

You scoot over to your shoes

that you always put on and leave on

in these situations,

like their presence

will somehow guilt your feet into moving,

instead of slipping them off hours later,

and giving up on the feeling

of going anywhere.

I so very wish I were a delicate, gentle girl with proper sensibilities which became offended and guarded at the crass and extreme. I would have creamy pale skin and inky hair and honey eyes that had nothing but softness and light in them, and a mind which struggled to ever start to reach the edge of depression, instead living high in the clouds and sun. There would be no reason to abandon a sound path set on education and New Years Eve and my birthdays would still be exciting, and my heart would still ache when I forgot to wash the dishes so my mom had to do them and swears harsher than "damn" would be unheard of. I wouldn't even think about boys until I was 19, and the only kind who would talk to me would be quiet and gentle too, with a strong resolve, and there would be no worries if it was 3 years before we had sex, we'd be companions and the core of it all would be love and kindness. I would find a healthy group of people and hobbies and never make the decisions that make me hate myself and question what my worth to the world is, and if I could ever become what some people used to look at me, smile and tell me I could be. I'm really not a person, I don't think I have a conscience, except maybe sometimes in hindsight. I hurt people and myself and I have a disregard and irreverence for things that matter and I can't be fazed and I'm slowly becoming a danger to everything I've worked for and I think one day I'll wake up and find myself in a dark room with a minimum wage job and not even care that I could have gone to Russia or found a cure and helped the world or helped countless people find hope and love in themselves instead. I'm a pitted person with nothing but self hatred and guilt and countless tears to selfishly cry over all the time I've already wasted and all the things that I wish were said or done to me but never were. I need to be given other people's love and words or an inordinate amount of sadness takes shape in my head. I'm not strong, or smart, or beautiful in the way I should be inside. I'm a shallow selfish brat with a whorish mind and body who likes obscene people and piercings and nasty thoughts and troublesome words and shock value and I didn't want to be delicate in this way.

Shine a light on it and it is hollow.

Like a door clicking into place, locked.

A swinging pendulum brushing closer to the floor, cutting stone.

Each shallow cut running nearer to your heart, but no blood.

The door is locked and they can't get in.

You are safe, you are trapped.

Defeat yourself and shine a light inside.

You are hollow.

Oh, these tangled lyrics that float off you skin,

holding my mouth open to the summer light, honey drip breeze

down my chin.

We were almost strangers lying there

so warm. So much is different

in the close corner of your room,

my impossibilities flourish.

There's so much in this speck of dust

you have to wonder if there is

a little more to me and a little more to you

that is shared by the stars and the dirt in my shoes

that makes these little hurts

more of an acceptable incidence

rather than a stain I can't ever get out.