It Is Between Worlds That I Sit, Holding The Hands Of The Future. Virtual Realities Spin Before Me As

Why do I crave love so much that I lie to get it. I dawn facades to taste sugar with a tongue that is not mine. Is it still sweet? Is anything truly my own?

I’m not going to hate myself anymore.

The truth is I have nothing worth writing about in me. I don’t connect with other people and that’s where good writing happens. I’m often in other people’s arms, I’m enwrapped in their laughter, but I don’t let them anywhere near me. I want so desparately to be loved as the mangled creature that I am but I’m too ashamed to show anybody my real face. So I hide it. And I make people laugh, I make them laugh so hard their sides hurt. And I feel the closest thing to love that someone like me can have. And I hope it is enough, because I don’t know how to have more than that and still feel safe. Maybe there isn’t a way. Maybe truly being loved is supposed to be scary. And I’m just a coward.

I want to live a thousand childhoods. I want to know how cold the water gets in the backyard rivers of country houses. I want to feel the texture of marble on kitchen counter tops and eat everything the private chef prepares. I want to run in grass miles and miles long with my sisters. I want to know how young feels in every skin there is.

Taken by salt water taffy, bring me to the childhood I never had

If I pull the dagger out

What will be left of me

I am blood unspilt, nothing more.

I want to change.

You can.

But I am afraid.

You ought to be.

I can't change.

Yes you can.

My legs are shaking. My feet are stuck in the ground.

Unstick them. Walk. Move. Change. Now!

Now?

Now.

I want so badly to be great but I don’t know how.

Algae bloomed on the face of the lake at summer’s height, like zits in bundles of thick and slimy green. The siren that dwelt deep in the lake’s toes could not bear the warm swampiness, it drove her mad. Not only that, but her sailor girl, her shining beacon of hope for food had wounded her in her escape. She felt rotten, her gash festered in hot white patches. No food, no beauty, no cold deep blue lake water to retreat to. All that was left for her was a walk. To find the sailor girl and give her what was coming to her.

There is something so magical about the bus boy’s dish cart. Coffee cups with cold wet sugar resting on their rims, plates with forks neatly splayed out on their porcelain cheeks, saucers holding old tea bags like newborn babes. Such a security in knowing the meal is done, and carried away, and nobody can take the conversations over your dinner table with them.