Sunday 4/02/2006 10:28:00 PM

A six pack of what's and a couple shots of how later it was all over. I wanted it to be terminal, but I knew it wasn't.

I didn't mind being used. Just the fact that I like it then. That I couldn't think of anything better to do with myself. Or any reasons why I shouldn't be a victim.

The years would make tracings and overlays. It's only pencil afterall. Not hard to undo. Thin paper. Enough to see through. How hard could it be to let it go.

The truth would try to tell me so many times before I would finally take off my headphones and actually let it speak. It's not that it's hard. It's that it too easy to lose. Again and again. Tell them it's what you wanted because it's not lying if it's what you expected.

Tell them you want to be alone. And sometimes you do, but not always. Not to leave them, but to offer them the chance to go.

Listen quietly. Let them tell you how it is. How you knew it was. It's not the picture that is hard to see. Not the shadows that are hard to look at. It's the lack of color. All that gray in their stare.

Like when they look at you an outline is all they see. Nothing solid. Nothing whole.

Just another channel that they're changing.

Except for me, it never changes, no matter how many times it threatens. It never does anything at all except remind me that I'm not like them.

It's not that I wanted to be. Just that I've never had the chance.

0 comments:


| Alcoholic Poet Home |
Copyright 2005-2016. All Rights Reserved.