It's so hard to pull from what seemed empty months ago. How can I feel so tough and determined for part of the day, then full of despair the next. I'm so tired of all of this pseudolove.
Why is it so impossible to be loved and known at the same time? Just when I think it is in my grasp, it wrigles and slips through again. There's only so many routes of escape before the same echoes creep up on me again. There seems a misty sheathe between myself and the girl in the mirror. I watch her walk by in windows and smile in pictures, but I am not a part of the spectacle. I guess my complexities got too entangled to be read, and now all I'm left with is a fuzzy fabric to die, cut, and hem.
There are no windows in this place. Only wood grain and trinkets to stare back at me plainly same as they have for weeks. I can move and polish them, but still somehow they stare. Like bruises the stains on my pillow remind me of all the muffled sniffs and pressurized temples that rocked me into forgotten dreams. Blue is a nice word for it. Really it feels more like brass or puke green or something annoying like that. Maybe if I were blue there would be some solice in the state itself. I feel like my insides are rejecting my outsides. They wish to break out, without knowing what from. Such a sadly familiar sensation. If I were not such a good liar, perhaps I could be more honest with myself now.
How did you learn to reverse your candied shell. Only palatable to yourself while the rest of us pay the cost. I play into your candy, and when I buck it I'm stung. So well trained you have me. But not for long.
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