In the Hole

So I have spent all week fixated on the wrong kind of man. All that matters is that he is a type, I suppose. These failures are long and delicious. I am becoming a type too. That friend. Never go for the one who is available, for they might have an open heart and love you and actually want to be with you. We are so cruel to ourselves.

Things have been stripped down, sold, removed removed removed and yet always somehow a mess seems to pop up in its place. A mass of a mess.

Always different every week.

I wait for the road to turn on its own, for a break to be cut, but it then appears that I am the one doing all the steering. I didn't want it to be that way, because then all the blame is on me. As it has always been in a system where we get to call the shots.

I am wise and worse the wear.

I just want a soft hand, to touch someone from behind the cellophane and to have my sounds heard, but it is nothing but muffled and I have been tricked into fear again.

I hate that love is always a distraction.

I'll laugh, as it stays dark in here all year while you grow and smile.

Tired of hearing "We want you, and we want to suck out your life."

This place is full of vampires.
It's dark and
cold out here by the dumpster.

All you wish is that I take what you take seriously, and sadly I will always laugh inappropriately.

I am cold and proud of being so.
It's cold.