Sometimes I’d like to tell it like it is. Sometimes I’d like to yell it from the mountain tops! Sometimes, when I’m really angry, I want to scream at all the idiots that love to sit there and blame everyone else for their crappy lives. Sometimes I want to pretend like people aren’t greedy or selfish, or rude. Sometimes I’d truly like to tell those people how clearly they’ve managed to ruin my personal perception of people and how much it affects my day when they decide to be ass-holes for no apparent reason. I don’t like lying. I don’t like acting like it’s no big deal. I don’t like pretending that everything is a piece of cake when it’s not. I get really anxious when I’m arriving to new places and I suppose that has a lot to do with the way I perceive people to perceive me. I’m self absorbed and that is the way that society has taught me to be. Apparently in my twenties I’m allowed to be selfish and act like I matter more than anyone else. But even if I choose to think differently, there will always be a moment when I slip up and become the selfish jerk I always knew I could be. We’re mean, we’re ludicrous and we generalize feelings and emotions into little categories. We think that things should be neat, you’re either pretty or fat, mean or nice, clean or dirty, right or wrong, girl or boy, straight or gay, happy or sad, believer or non-believer. I think I’m over believing that the world should fit in the palm of my hand. Where did all these rules come from? Was Jesus not the biggest rule-breaker that ever existed? I mean, if you wanna get biblical, think about that for a few minutes. Either way, I have a problem with the way things are going. I have a problem with the way everything is going. I just want to be free. I want to feel the freedom of having what ever color hair I want, or being what ever kind of person I want. I want to love and be loved. I want to dream, to travel, to grow, but I don’t want to do it under some unwritten laws that state the order in which everything has to go. My life is messy and I think that’s how it should be.
I’m a hypocrite and I lie sometimes. I’m two-faced and scared sometimes. I sometimes don’t practice what I preach. And I get angry when others try to teach. But here it is. Plain and simple. I don’t like it when I’m singled. Out. I feel like I’ve been pretending to do something that makes no sense to me. I’m sad because I have the feelings of maybe multiple people. But there is nothing I can do but pretend that I’m just stable. I want to say certain things. I want to tell it like it is. But I’m a bit on the uneasy side of who I am and new beginnings. Either way, I lie a lot. I think I’m clever but I’m not. I try so hard to look real wise, but I’ve just come to realize, that I am who I am. Imperfect most of the time.
I call this a poem: How to properly complement a guy:
I can’t say that I like you.
No? Because I don’t
I just have to get the words out
So excuse me while I choke.
I really found you handsome,
When you struggled the most.
I really thought you sweet,
As you smiled through defeat.
But I have to pretend now,
That you’re just another
Another face to obsess over
To pass the time, to make a rhyme.
Soon it will go away
I promise you.
But if I may,
I’d just like to say…
I feel like I’m dying. I can’t breathe through my nose. I can’t even really feel my face. If I move, my bones will shatter. If I move, I’ll feel the aches I’ve been trying to pretend don’t exist. I’m tired and my heart begins to race. What is this? I feel like the room is spinning. I can barely get up. My neck feels like it’s carrying too much weight. The gunk in my eyes has no easy fix and all I want to do is lay down. I try. It’s hot now. These blankets aren’t cutting it. My limbs feel heavy. They feel sore. Help!
I’m an imperfect person and there are many things that are “wrong” with me. I don’t like the idea of waiting. I hate staring at people’s eyes when they talk. I feel like I’m committing to something as soon as I do. But that’s just the way that I can at least control how I feel. Even though it’s hot inside, my hands remain icicles. It’s safe in this room, with the curtain pulled down. It’s safe in this bed with blankets preventing me from providing society with any progress. I think the hardest thing lately has been trying to find some sort of balance between what I’m feeling and how I want to be feeling. I want to be less afraid. So I have to throw myself into the pit of wolves to vanquish this fear. I can’t be this scared little girl forever. Sometimes I look down at my hands and imagine how they’ll age. I imagine the wrinkles and the lines stretching out changing the size of each finger. I imagine seeing these moles or spots unrecognizable to my younger self. I imagine standing in the mirror and finding myself hardly able to recognize the person staring back. But sometimes when I’m alone, when I am truly alone with nothing else but my thoughts to crowd me, I think of the future. I think of the never seizing “what if’s” and the sorrowful “if only’s”. Time is running from me. It’s leaving me behind and keeping me from comfort. I feel breathless running after it. Sometimes in the quiet intervals between sleep and being wide awake, I think of these stories of treasured emotions that seem to be happening to everyone else but me. But for the most part, I can hardly ever fully sleep.
I don’t want to be angry at the fact that I can’t have everything I want. I can’t be angry that I don’t own all the things that would potentially fill this sickening void. I can’t pretend that it doesn’t hurt sometimes. I have no control and for the most part, I feel helpless. I can’t control the things that are happening. I have no real say in anything that happens at this point. As sad as it is, I am just a spec of dust trying to find a place to call home. But thus far, I fall short believing that what I have is not enough. I always want more. Maybe that’s human nature, but I would think that at some point I would reach some level of contentment. But no. Thus far, I’ve reached a simple moment of stillness. It’s all just a story I tell myself so that I’ll feel better. I am here now, but sometimes I wish I was somewhere else, with someone else. But this is it now. I have to wait. There’s nothing that I could possibly do to make this lack of movement pass. I hate everything.
I think I liked you once. I think I enjoyed the funny parts in between; the affection we had for one another. But those are just lies I tell myself so I have something to look forward to. The nights are dreadful and mornings are hard. The world revolves. It turns into silly little things. It hides the dirty bits in order to make itself more meaningful. But everything else is broken. You and I are nothing. We are meaningless and stupid. We think too much and we will potentially die alone. Within the walls of our houses. Within the spaces in our dreams. We think we know everything, but in reality we know so little that there isn’t anything else to compare this lacking in our brains. But this is it and everything else is leading us to an endless disgrace of heavy hearted individuals.
You want me to be open? I promise you, you don’t. If I said everything I was feeling your jaw would drop. If I said everything I was thinking you’d kick yourself for ever coming up with the idea for me to be open. So you go on and say all the idiotic things that pop into your head and then somehow I’m still left looking like the butt of the family. So you wonder why I don’t tell you everything. It’s quite simple really, I can’t be open with a person who doesn’t appreciate what I have to say. That’s right, every conversation that you and I share is not appreciated by you or me. I could care less at this point. I just have to be kind and pretend that everything is great. I have to pretend that the crap that you’ve instilled in your head against me isn’t ruining our kinship. But such is life, you grow apart. “You can’t choose your family,” that’s what they say. I couldn’t agree more. I couldn’t choose you to be a part of my life, but as I get older, I can’t help but feel like life is coming in the middle of everything that remains of “us”. You don’t see it. You keep your distance and find it incredible when I don’t want anything to do with you. How is that really a surprise to you? How are you still in denial that there is anything wrong with you? You with your obsession over all your precious things. You with your amazing ability to make me feel small; smaller than the love you had for your newly picked spouse. But you still demand respect. How can I respect someone who just continues to discourage and psychologically ruin those who were there first. I promise you, she doesn’t know who you were before you had faith. Even then, I have yet to really know you with faith. You make it difficult. You never open your eyes to the reality in mine, my sadness. All you see is lack of appreciation and you define me as ungrateful. But I am not ungrateful, I’m disappointed.