It was only just a dream...

You showed up in my dream again last night.  I guess your appearance makes sense, given the last few days, but it still comes as a shock to me when it happens. 

In the dream, you were just the way I remember you, and yet somehow different - the way I'd expect you've changed over the years.  Everything felt familiar, comfortable, as it did so long ago.  You used your oh-so-witty dry humor to pick on me.  You used the fact that I found you irresistible to get away with it.  You helped me when I needed it, somehow always astounding me with the concern you had for me.  As always, just when I thought I knew what you were going to do or say, you surprised me.  It's one of the things I liked the most.  You were crazy, in all the best ways.  You weren't perfect; I had moments in which you infuriated me.  And yet that made you that mean so much more to me.

When my brothers came in the room, they ran over to say hi to you.  They adored you.  They wanted to tell you about the things they had done, and you would sit and listen, talk to them like peers, and play with them.  So instinctually, you connected with the two people who have always meant the most to me.  Watching you with them made me realize how lucky I was to have you all in my life.  I wanted to join, but I didn't want to interrupt.  It made me love you even more. 

For all the times that you drove me crazy, that I wanted to walk away, it was the moments like this that showed me you were worth it, come what may.  You and I just...worked.  I spent a significant portion of my dream just watching you and the boys, and I couldn't get the smile off of my face.  And that's what it came down to, for me.  No matter what was going on in our lives, you could make me smile.  When we were together, you were one of three people who could do that.  The other two were the little boys that you were always so good with.

I woke up this morning with a smile on my face, genuinely happy for the first time in a while.  And then I remembered that it was just a dream - that those days are gone and we won't have them again - and the smile faded.  I dragged myself out of bed and went on with my day, the dream forgotten amongst test preparation and normal morning chores.  It wasn't until the morning slowed down that I could sit and consider.  I know you'll never see this.  Our lives have changed in innumerable ways in the years that have passed.  But somehow, you still pop up in my mind sometimes.  You still make me smile.  And it makes me miss you all over again, even if only for a moment.

10:27am  26.10.11

"Don't waste your time applying to med school.  You won't get in anyway."
"Well, it's not like you'll actually graduate."
"No one will love you if you have scars on you."
"Depression isn't real.  It's all made up in your head, so just get over it."

This is how I grew up.  I can't say this is how I was raised, because I don't believe my father raised me.  He was around to point out my flaws, come up with chores that needed to be done, and make me feel useless.  Unfortunately, he was very good at it.

I've come a long way from where I was mentally when I lived at home.  Thank God, or I probably wouldn't be here today.  But his snide remarks still hurt.  I play them over and over in my mind, wanting so badly to prove him wrong, to prove to myself that I am more than he has ever given me credit for.  Yes, I deal with him better now, but he still affects me.  I have this unshakable feeling that I'm too stupid to be successful, too useless to be loved, to unworthy of anything good that may happen.

I deal - though not always well - but what kills me is seeing his effect on my brothers.  Those two beautiful, brilliant boys that I would do anything for.  That I gave up my childhood for.  That I care about more than I even knew was possible.  The fact that I have to deprogram them from shit my father has planted in their heads.  To convince them that they are good people who are talented and intelligent.  To remind them that life does get better with time and that I'm always there for them.  It seems like I get a call from at least one of them weekly, where they're so worked up all they can say is "I hate him" repeatedly.

I can't stand how he treated me, but I hate seeing the effect he has on them.  All they wanted was the support of their dad - to know he was proud - and they were forced to learn far too young that some people are never happy and to seek support elsewhere.  I thank God I can be there for them.  I only wish I had someone similar when i was young.  Maybe then I'd have a little bit more faith in myself.  Maybe then I'd feel a little less worthless.

3:08pm  8.10.11

And now, my entirely rambly, riddled with spoilers, thoughts on Drive.

As I start writing this, it is 1am, I’ve been up since 7am, I’m severely lacking in caffeine, and I just got back from the movies.  There is a very high probability that this entire post will be incoherent, fair warning.  I should probably just go to sleep, but there are a few thoughts I wanted to commit to something other than my memory before I do so.

Here’s what I knew walking into Drive.  Ryan Gosling, Carey Mulligan, Ron Perlman, Nicholas Winding Refn directed, little dialogue, heist driver.  That’s it.  That’s all I figured I needed, because that’s all the previews and interviews presented (yes, I even watched interviews with the cast and crew).  It sounded interesting, at least moderately entertaining, and hey – Ryan Gosling.  Having now seen the film, I wish I had known more about it before I sat down.

I’m sick of feeling this way; I’m tired of being unable to think of anything else.  My reality is being bombarded by daydreams.  It’s a good thing mind readers aren’t real, or I’d be in trouble.  Even my fantasies are becoming more illicit, like they have to up the ante after a certain amount of time.  I feel like I’m being controlled completely by this overwhelming want, and I’m going to explode if I can’t find a way to release it.

It’s pathetic, too, because I’m utterly incapable of verbalizing it to him – hell, I haven’t found a way to fully verbalize the completeness of it to anyone – much less act on these impulses.  My brain, my hormones, my body, are stuck in this state of craving.  I can’t seem to get enough.  Satisfaction is fleeting.  As soon as it hits, the want begins again – and I want more.  I don’t want to rely on fantasy.  I want reality.  I want him in my reality.  I want his hands on my ass, lips on my breast, hip thrusting, can’t form coherent thoughts, reality.  I want locked eyes and moans, locked lips and release.  The daydreams used to be enough – a private movie I could mentally play for my own enjoyment.  Now, they play when I should be focusing elsewhere, and they just can’t keep me happy.

When he’s next to me, I ache for contact, for the distance between us to close.  But I’m so fucking awkward that I’m incapable of doing it myself.  See?  Pathetic.  I crave that small sign that he may want me too.  That I may be enough for him.  So I sit, and I make conversation, and I try to keep my fantasies at bay so I can hear what he has to say.  And I urge him to catch on, to pick up on my desire to jump him right there.  To straddle him, to grind my hips into his, and to whisper into his ear just how much I want him. 

When I saw him last, I happened to catch a glimpse of his hands first.  The first thing that popped into my head, I kid you not, was how good those fingers would feel sliding in and out of me.  How much I wanted to feel them right then.  That instant yearning for more overcame my mind, but, of course, I did nothing.  I smiled, and we talked about inane things, and I hid the lust I felt. 

I don’t know what to do now.  But I need some relief that is longer lasting than what I have now.  The pent-up tension, the lust, the mind-numbing ache to feel his weight above me, his hands exploring me, every inch of him deep inside of me, is driving me absolutely crazy.  I’m sure someone else could fill in, but that’s not who I want. Hormones suck.

Here I am, awkward and feeling ridiculous about trying to make a brazen move, even though the me in my head is totally okay pushing for what she wants.  A huge roadblock, stopping that girl from presenting herself to him, is the fear of rejection.  The what-if of putting myself out there and learning that he has absolutely no interest in me – that no amount of fantasizing on my part will change that.  So I remain plagued by dirty thoughts, a veritable slave to my own imagination, with no more than a fleeting release.  What is wrong with me?  My id needs to back the hell off and let me catch my breath.

12:37am  15.9.11

Have you ever listened to a song that had an immediate and profound impact on you?

That happened to me today. A song came on in iTunes with a play count of 1 (not surprising, given the quantity of music I possess).  The song played through, and I realized that all other actions had ceased while it was on.  I immediately played it again.  The second time, I not only listened, but I felt it.  It was like my heart and gut were listening too.  The words struck right at the core of me, and I could feel them resonating there.  I put the song on replay.  By the fourth listen, I knew every word and run.  By the tenth, I felt tears welling up.  As I write, I am on play count 21.  I can't bring myself to turn it off.

We've all experienced a moment where a lyric, quote, or poem has stayed with us, seeming like it was written about us.  Tonight, it felt like this song was written to serve as a voice for my subconscious -- it embodies everything I hadn't realized I was feeling, until I heard it set to music.  It verbalizes thoughts I could never have formed in such a beautiful, coherent way.  It struck me.  And maybe I'll listen to it tomorrow and think it's too melodramatic.  Maybe I just got caught up in a moment and let it overtake me tonight.  Even so, the connection I feel right now to these lyrics is unshakable.  Even while writing, I am struggling to focus on the words.  My eyes keep closing.  My ears are trained solely on the music.

I'm listening to a woman I'll never meet singing every word I've never been brave enough to admit.

Play count: 24.


12:15am  12.9.11

L.O.V.E.

Lauren sat at the diner, unable to move.   She was in shock.  Three years of fear and pain, over.  Her phone sat on the counter, and she could just barely hear the dial tone sounding from when he had hung up.  She felt like she should be crying.  Should be doing something.  But she couldn’t bring herself to do anything at all.  She couldn’t even form coherent thoughts.  The waitress approached, set down the slice of apple pie Lauren had ordered what felt like ages ago, and asked if she wanted whipped cream.  The question snapped Lauren back to reality.  She jumped up, threw down some cash as she grabbed her phone, and she ran out the door.

Once she was on the road, she kept speeding up, weaving in and out of cars.  She cared less about following the rules of the road the further she went.  Everyone was moving too slow.  A drive that should’ve taken ten minutes seemed to take hours.  Her mind, frozen moments before, was racing just as fast as her car.  The past three years had been torture.  She had watched him deteriorate in front of her eyes.  She’d spent day after day, curled in bed with him, praying for a miracle.  He often moaned in his sleep, and as she watched him rest, she cried.  They both did their best to keep it together, but she knew he must’ve cried sometimes too.  She knew that he was in more pain than he let on, but he never told her when it became unbearable, when he wanted to give up and move on.  She feared her presence hurt him in some way, forcing him to act braver than he felt, but she was too selfish to be absent for very long.  His parents never minded that she had practically moved into his room.  She did her best to give them their own time, as much as the time away hurt her.  She had been at the diner for that very reason.  As she pulled into the parking lot, the same thoughts repeated continuously in her mind.  ‘I should’ve been there.   I shouldn’t have left for so long, or gone so far.’  She jumped out of the car, nearly leaving her keys in the ignition, and broke out into a sprint toward the glass sliding doors.

Victor was leaning on the wall outside his son’s room as Lauren approached, his phone still in his hand from when he had called her. She saw that his eyes were red and swollen.  He had been crying in the hall so his wife wouldn’t see.  He sucked in his breath, trying to regain his composure, as he embraced Lauren and kissed her forehead.  He nodded toward the door and followed her inside.  Victor walked to the far side of the bed to join his wife, who was unashamedly sobbing while holding her son’s hand, as Lauren neared the other side.  She took a deep breath, unsure of exactly what to do or say.

Every day for three years had been full of battling for his life.  Prayers, tears, hope, and fear had controlled their every moment.  Each hour seemed too short, each day one less that they had with him.  Seeing him lying in the bed, she knew she’d suffer through it all again with him if it meant she got to experience this exact moment again.  He was weak still, and he looked completely exhausted.  His drooping eyes turned toward her slowly, and she saw something she had feared had been lost forever.  He smiled.  She climbed into the bed next to him, as she had so many times before, and they intertwined their arms.  She glanced toward his parents and whispered, ‘It’s all over?’ They both nodded furiously.  She inhaled, and for the first time in three years, they all cried together.

27.10.09  1:55pm

25.6.10 9:42pm

The hollowest of aches

The world seemed to darken, the walls closing in.  She felt the air being sucked out of her, life leaving her body.  Her chest hurt, some combination of a shredding sensation combined with the hollowest of aches.  She was sitting in her car, practically folded in half, head resting on the steering wheel as she gasped for air.  Her head felt fuzzy, like she was in a dream-state.  Or inside a nightmare.  She was crying hysterically – that started before she was even out of the office and inside her car – and the tears continued to roll down her cheeks, creating twin puddles on her jeans.  She was trying to think, to comprehend, what she had just heard, but no coherent thoughts existed amidst the panic that had taken over her head.  She couldn’t grasp what he had said well enough to even begin to come to terms with it.  Not yet.  And certainly not for a while.  

She heard her phone ring, an all-too-cheery ditty that made her feel a little nauseous.  The sound pulled her back to reality just enough to glance at the caller ID.  Through the blur of tears and haze from oxygen deprivation, she could just barely make out the name.  Mike.  Her Mike.  Future husband, father of her kids, Mike.  Ex-future father of her kids.  That was all it took for the full-on hysteria to start again.  She dropped the phone, resumed the previous position, and felt her mind fog up again.  

After what seemed like an hour, when the tears had stopped and her throat felt raspy, she sat up.  It made her dizzy, the sudden blood rush, and she had to hold herself steady for a moment.  She glanced at her phone and realized that he had called back 7 times while she had been in the car.  Apparently she was so gone she hadn’t even heard the phone ring again.  Confident the panic attack was over for now, she picked up the phone again.  She was so glad he had not come with her to the doctor today.  She needed to hear the news on her own.  To deny, feel angry, and grieve on her own.  It would all start over again once he knew, but she needed to have some sort of control over herself before she passed the news along.  She took a deep breath, hearing the rattling that he would pick up on immediately, and dialed the phone.  He picked up on the first ring.  Before he could utter a syllable, she said, “I’m on my way.  I have something I need to tell you.”  She hung up before the tears could start again.

1:59am   2.3.10

The Dance

She eyed the name, mouse hovering, ready to click. She wanted to say hello. To ask about his day, to hear of his exploits. She wanted him to ask about her day so she could tell him everything she had seen.

She never knew which version of him she was going to get, though. Some days, he was a ball of energy and spunk. He could make her laugh so hard she cried. His humor and wit were mesmerizing to her. They bantered like an old couple and flirted via mild insults, like little kids. Other days, his depression seeped through the text. His pain, palpable. Each response took an eternity and added little to the conversation. Honestly, she didn’t care which version she got. She just hated that he could be suffering so much. She would happily talk to any manifestation of him. Any response was contact and she thrived on it. Plus, she figured, having someone show interest and compassion was important on the bad days.

She had found an equal, she felt. Someone who understood her sense of humor and could challenge her intelligence, making her truly consider the world around her. She loved the intricate tango that played out when they talked. The give and take of their discussions. The well-intentioned insults that their mutual sense of humor lent itself to so well.

Yes, she had found someone who got her in a way no one had in years. Unfortunately, she found him at a time when he was only himself some of the time. There was nothing she could do but continue to be there. To keep the lines of communication open. To wait for him to return to himself full-time. And to hope that some day he would notice that she was there for him. Even if nothing ever happened, she loved that he considered her a friend – someone to confide in. That consolation did not stop her from hoping that the future held more for them. After all, it wasn’t everyday that you met someone who could make you laugh and think in the way he did. Someone who could challenge your beliefs in a way that was more inspirational than insulting. In a few short months, she had become quite attached to their conversations, whether upbeat or more cynical.

Her mouse rested on his name as she contemplated what to do. She sat and stared, trying to make up her mind. She wanted to say hello, if only for selfish reasons. She had become reliant on his presence in her life. She wanted him there on the good and bad days. But this wasn’t just about her, and sometimes she thought she might be trying just a little bit too hard. She moved the mouse away, closed the window, and turned back to her notes. Maybe she would say hello later. Or maybe not. She had just started to focus on her work again when she heard a familiar click. She glanced up and grinned. The text box that held an integral part of her world had appeared. ‘Hello’ it said. ‘Hello, yourself’, she replied. And so their dance began again.


12:00am  19.8.10

His face

She knew the face in front of her. She’d seen it thousands of times before. Held it, caressed it, stared longingly into its eyes. For several years, she had seen it only in dreams, sure that would be the only way she’d see him again. The man who stood before her was no stranger.
“Nicole? Is that you?”
“Do I know you?”
Of course she did! He was her first real crush. Her first love. Her first lover. She was shocked to see him, but her expression did not betray her.
“It’s me. Jake?”
“Oh? Jake…I think my roommate in college dated a Jake. But he was blonde. Did you go to Michigan?”
His face was less able to withhold emotion. He appeared startled and hurt.
“No. Jake. From high school? Jake Larson. We…dated?”
Dated. What a simple, incomplete way to put it. Everything out of his mouth sounded like a question. Her confusion had shaken him at his core. He had wondered what would happen if he saw her again. Uncountable scenarios had run through his head. This was not one of them.
“Oh, right! Jake Larson. Nice to see you, I hope all is well, but I really must be going.”
She turned and walked away. She wanted more than anything to turn around, but her pride made her continue on. Her memories and dreams had been enough to remind her of their love long lost. His matured face would haunt her for months to come.


18.1.10  4:35am

Already gone.

“Will you wait?” His eyes, pleading for my answer, shone gold in the bright July sun.

“Of course I will.” I smiled my most sincere smile and stood on my toes to kiss his cheek. I don’t know why I said it. I knew it was a lie before it left my lips. Maybe I wanted it to be true – to believe I was the kind of person who could wait for him – or maybe I didn’t want to hurt him anymore than leaving already would. Regardless of the reason, I did lie. I had no intent to become one of those women, sitting at home, waiting for a phone call and dreading a knock on the door. It didn’t make sense. Why should my life be put on hold because he was leaving for a while? His life was continuing on, and so would mine. We’d have to see who he had become when he came home.

I must’ve been quiet for too long; he subtly cleared his throat to bring me back to reality. He knew better than to ask where I had disappeared to. I’d like to think that he understood that he wouldn’t like the thoughts going through my mind. Or maybe he thought he knew me well enough that he didn’t need to ask.

I looked into his eyes with my best longing stare, kissed him fully, and then let his arms envelop me as I whispered, “You’ve got to go.” He gave me one last squeeze, resting his cheek on my head, and then let me go.

He looked heartbroken as he walked away from me. All I felt was relief. I loved him, yes, but that didn’t seem like enough. Not enough to sit around for months or years. He’d move on. Probably before he even got home. I’m just getting a head-start on the moving – hypothetically, of course. It’s not like I had a guy or three lined up at home. I was just being honest about what would inevitably happen in the future.

He was on the plane, probably trying to look excited about this new beginning, but internally terrified. I turned and walked away before he took off. Why watch the plane leave when, to me, he was already gone?


1:03pm  25.6.09

Notes from the Road

I have made the drive from Stl to KC too many times to count. So many times, in fact, that I have certain thoughts that always cross my mind at the same mile markers. Today, I decided to document them.


You know your drive is boring when you remember every slight change in direction in elevation. Currently at 167.8 - the Big Hill.

128, Columbia, where the speed limit drops by 10 and traffic slows by 3.

123, outside of Columbia, back to 80.

91.2, the Big Turn.

58.8, fuel and caffeine stop in Bumfuck, MO, where gas is 10 cents cheaper than in KC and 15 cents cheaper than in Stl.

28, the QT I stop at when heading east...this is where I regret the large soda and proceed to squirm for the rest of the drive.

21, where the speed limit drops and no one cares.

10.2, where I see the Royals and Chiefs stadiums, and I sigh at the shittiness of KC sports while missing having home teams worth cheering for.

3.6, where no one what knows what lane to be in.

2, where I finally get off the highway after 3+ hours and slowly regain my sanity.


I really should document the return trip at some point, but the odds of me remembering are quite slim.

3:22pm 31.7.11

It just is.

Your chest pressed against mine.  Your heartbeat radiating from deep within you, palpable on my skin.  My lips on your neck.  Your hands on my waist, my back, my face.  Everywhere, always moving.  My fingers lost in your hair.  Intertwined.  Ecstasy.

I shake it out of my head temporarily, but the picture is engrained in me, the associated emotions ready to surge again.  The thoughts creep up when I least expect them.  The fantasy, destined to remain a figment of imagination, never to enter the realm of reality.  To watch it fade from mind again causes a hollow ache that I can't quite explain.  A feeling of never-been and never-will.  It doesn't hurt.  It just is.

Weapons of Choice

She released her thumb and the flame flickered before extinguishing.  She set down the lighter, holding the now sterile instrument in her other hand.  Her weapon of choice.  She rested her left arm on the towel, closed her eyes, and pressed.  The pain was instant, deep, and high-pitched, if such a thing were possible.  She slid it toward her elbow, exhaling deeply and feeling her relief mingling with the pain.  As she lifted her right hand, she opened her eyes.  Her blood, so garish against her pale flesh, was dripping down her arm.  It was indistinguishable from the maroon towel on which it pooled.  She had cut deeper than she meant to.  This one might leave a legitimate scar.  Shit.

She sat there for a moment, watching the warm liquid slowly exit her body.  As it began to slow, she wrapped her arm in the towel and headed to the bathroom. She cleaned the blade and returned it to the cabinet, and then rinsed the now-dried blood from her arm.  It stung like crazy, but the pain was what she had been seeking in the first place.  Pain meant she was feeling something - it was a temporary reprieve from the internal torment she couldn't seem to fully escape.  She looked at her arm again, seeing the dozen or so parallel lines, all of different lengths and in different stages of healing.  Good thing it was winter.  No one would question her choice to wear long-sleeves for several weeks.  She sighed, turned off the bathroom light, and went back to studying.


7:30pm  4.5.11

This Town

Worn-down and exhausted
Felt like his life was passing him by
Hated his job, missed his family
Spent most nights with no one by his side

He’d reached a breaking point
Knew something had to give
Packed everything that mattered
Started driving, life to live
10 hours later, opened the door
Stepped onto the pavement
He’d never seen this before

T-minus

L -


10
minutes I stood, leaning against my door, after our first date. Blindsided by your charm, unwilling to admit to myself how I felt.


9
hours before I heard from you again, a cheery good morning text that I was excited to wake up to.


8
months I spent getting to know you. You didn't make it easy, but I assumed you were worth the time and effort.

She knew then.

This is an old piece, but one I rediscovered going through my folder of random scribblings today. I hope you like it; feedback is always appreciated.
~~~~~~~~~~

She sat, legs across his lap, arm around his neck, and stared at his face. His downward-glancing eyes. His grim expression, struggling to contain the misery he felt inside. She would have done anything to take away his pain or to distract his mind for just a moment. She didn’t know how to fix it. Hell, she wasn’t even sure what was wrong. So she sat and waited.

Moments drug out like hours as she waited for him to speak. To open up. To let her in and finally take advantage of all her offers of help. She wanted to fix everything, or at least be there to listen. To help him think things through. It was the least she could do, after all he had done for her.

She felt his arms wrap around her waist, pulling her closer. His eyes still fixed on a spot below.

Sitting was driving her crazy. She wanted to do…something. But that obviously was not what he needed. When she simply could not sit still any longer, she moved the hand draped around his neck and pushed his hair out of his eyes. His beautiful eyes, that served as direct access to his innermost secrets. Eyes she could get lost in for hours. Eyes that, if she could only get him to look up, might give her the slightest idea of what thoughts were rushing through his brain. She ran her fingers through his hair a few more times before letting her hand return to his chest.

0.142857143

Ci sono tante cose che vorrei dirti. Ma non posso parlarle, e non so perché.

I don't know how to say what I feel. Not to him. 6 days out of 7, I'm just fine. Dandy even. But that one day...I just can't help but wonder if I am wasting my time...like he'll never see how much I care. He'll never care about how much I care. He'll never feel the same. 6/7ths of the time, I am perfectly content being a friend. That other 1/7th reminds me of how much I could let myself fall. I'm better than I was. 1/7th I can deal with. I just wish I knew if it was time to totally put it behind me. I know he's not in the same place I am -- I've come to terms with that -- and I don't want to be that girl who sits around forever and nothing ever happens. But I don't want to totally give up either. That damned "someday" hangs over my head like my own personal storm cloud.

Just another day.

Let me be clear. I don't like Valentine's Day. I don't like it when I'm single. I didn't like it when I have been in relationships. It's stupid. If you love me, show it. If you want to buy me something to show you care, or make a sweet gesture, do it when I cross your mind. Not because stores are selling roses or cards. Not because commercials are constantly suggesting present ideas. Just because. Having an entire day set aside for me to anxiously await a material representation of your feelings, and vice versa? No thanks. Gifts aren't gifts if they're expected. So skip the flowers and chocolate. A night curled up on the couch together is better anyway.

This isn't a new stance - some defense mechanism to protect myself from exaggerated and unfulfilled hopes. I've felt like this for years, both single and with someone. So why, when my feelings on the subject are clear and unwavering, does this day still make me feel like crap? Dammit.

It's just another day.

2.14.11 10:16am

What Comes Next? I'm Sure I Don't Want To Know.

I'm a mess. I feel lost, hopeless, helpless, and out of control. And bloody exhausted. I cannot escape it. If I knew how, I would. In order to explain, let us back up a few days.

(Sunday)
As of Sunday night, I am no longer in contact with someone who has been a part of my life for years. While I will defend my reasons from here to eternity, it is definitely going to take time to adjust. I keep finding myself saving links for him, or wanting to relate stories, only to pause and go, "Oh wait...never mind". I'm not saying it can't be fixed, but I don't see it changing anytime soon.

(Monday)

Don't Ask

I would just like to preface this post by saying that I very rarely write poetry...it's not a form I can breathe in. However, the first few lines of this were stuck in my head, so I let it write itself. Love it or hate it, it's up to you. I'm not even sure how I feel about it yet; I'm oscillating between extremes. ~A
-----------------------------------------------------

Don’t ask
Because I don’t know
And if I did
I probably wouldn’t tell you

Honesty isn’t a fair trade
When all I hear are lies

You look at me
And I feel myself
Falling once again
As much as I say I’m fine