June
Thursday 20 November 2008 photo 2/2
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It's sick how much it turns me on to know that there is only one person who would understand me, if he cared enough to open the documents I send or notes I pass. It's crazy how addicted I am to being rejected and then led on over and over again; the same story. I'm not stupid; I know what's going to happen. Deep breath in. I am Portia but this Brutus doesn't notice I'm bleeding and I love it. Can't stop twisting the knife. I've just offered myself up to be a punch line for a joke I have no idea what it is.
The fact that his sides are splitting, blood gushing out from the seams as he keeps laughing, fuck, I love it. Love the attention, hate that people are looking. Love being judged but suddenly I get a bad review and it's a game I don't want to play anymore. It's not like he's going to stop. Well, it's not like he even began from the start. Just another personified heartache, I'm thriving off of his love for everyone except me.
I prefer my flaws over my strengths because they make more interesting writing material. It's easier to be poetic when you're half-way through your third beer. Lightweight in general but I drink until I've got an empty ocean when it comes to my heart.
And everyone is easy on the eyes when you're blind. Secrets are easily shared when everyone except two are deaf. He&'s upstairs and over my head as I frantically scribble, carve into notebooks until I run out of paper. The living room table would work fine, but I find comfort in lies and lines, so every piece of furniture is already carved up. He's the only piece of smooth surface left, while I scratch up my own skin with sandpaper fingers. I'll go dressed in cancer before I give up on the hope of being recognized by him; hoping that at least someone will have known or understood me before I die.
The fact that his sides are splitting, blood gushing out from the seams as he keeps laughing, fuck, I love it. Love the attention, hate that people are looking. Love being judged but suddenly I get a bad review and it's a game I don't want to play anymore. It's not like he's going to stop. Well, it's not like he even began from the start. Just another personified heartache, I'm thriving off of his love for everyone except me.
I prefer my flaws over my strengths because they make more interesting writing material. It's easier to be poetic when you're half-way through your third beer. Lightweight in general but I drink until I've got an empty ocean when it comes to my heart.
And everyone is easy on the eyes when you're blind. Secrets are easily shared when everyone except two are deaf. He&'s upstairs and over my head as I frantically scribble, carve into notebooks until I run out of paper. The living room table would work fine, but I find comfort in lies and lines, so every piece of furniture is already carved up. He's the only piece of smooth surface left, while I scratch up my own skin with sandpaper fingers. I'll go dressed in cancer before I give up on the hope of being recognized by him; hoping that at least someone will have known or understood me before I die.
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