I'm good at things, sometimes.
I'm good at making people laugh, sometimes.
I'm good at being slightly outrageous.
I'm good at being spinney-whirling-round-in-circles, until I'm dizzy and don't remember all the hurty things, and why would they matter anyway, when the world is moving? Like this.
I'm good at crying.
I'm good at being angry.
I'm good at making other people angry.
I'm good at making them cry.
I like making them angry, not so much the tears.
When people get angry, you know that they've heard what you had to say.
When they cry, you know that they've taken it to heart.
I don't like doing that to peoples hearts. Trespassing, and leaving little bits of poison.
Speaking things that should never have been spoken out loud.
But I'm good at that too, catching at thoughts out of air, the thoughts they didn't even know they had. The thoughts they caught a glimpse of, once, and pushed away in a panic.
The thoughts they hoped to god no one would ever know about.
I'm good at it.
Knowing them, and repeating them back in a moment of ugliness.
I'm good at loving people. Especially lonely people, who need love. And people who aren't lonely, but still feel alone. Or do I mean that the other way ?
There's so much loneliness in this world. It makes me sad.
So I send them some love, in smiles and words, or just an eyes-shut-pressure-building-in-my chest-who-knows-maybe-they'll-feel-it?
The quiet friend, the girl who walks quickly with her head down. The man with the tired eyes, on his way home, but not sure why.
Love to order. Tell me what you need.
I attach too quickly. And trust too easily, or not at all.
And it was my fault really. No really. Because I saw you, all of your unhappy places, the desolate stretches in your mind, the thoughts that arrived whether you willed them or not. And sometimes you did, you did want those thoughts.
I could feel your need. Desperation.
And I knew. That you were the kind of person to take hold, tightly. To suck another dry, discard them, move on. And never think of them, of me again. Except for maybe during three clock's,when you couldn't sleep. And wanted to hate yourself.
And so I've become a thought. A dark thought filled with self-hatred, when all I thought I wanted was to bring you some light, and love.
It's my fault. Really. Because I didn't think I could change you. I'm not that girl.
I don't tell myself lies.
Except, that's probably a lie.
I dreamed about you once, one dream, out of thousands. It seemed to matter at the time. You couldn't breathe, and I helped you and held you.
I found out the other day, that that's what you're meant to do, compress the person. Hold them tight until their heartbeat slows. I guess my subconscious knew all along.
It makes it worse, somehow. When the song plays, or your name shifts across my eyelids. Not blaming you. Because I get angry at myself, and I make myself cry. You were such a bad idea.
This has taken too long to write. Because all of the spaces, between the lines, are filled up with words. They are distracting me.
I'm a little bit lost. And tired. And sad.
And I stopped taking the pills again.
Last time you were there, to pretend to care.
And you told me to be careful. While you picked over my broken parts.
I think I'll just lie here. And refill myself, ready for the next person to reach out and grasp me. Empty me, while I lie, passive and all knowing, in their hand.