My blood curdles over my own words. So much to be felt and not enough nerve endings. So we make a queue and one by one, they are felt. In the deep of the night. In the warm, summer afternoons. One by one: they are felt.
In the farthest chasm of the mind, we pull them apart. Dissected and evaluated. Blame it on the bureaucracy. Draped in red tape and shrouded in perceptions. We taste them. We spit them out. We caress them. We dare them to stay away. Too many endings and not enough nerves to go around.
A neon sign hangs above my head. Creativity is dripping from wrists onto the floor and collecting into a puddle. I sweep down and pick it up. I am in love with all and none.
I am listening to alternate songs — the dark pink and purple hues flow through my brain. I am alive. I am inside a Netflix indie movie, right before that climax when the hero fucks shit up; except this is a video game and I haven’t completed any of my tasks. I’m merely running around the city manically — happily because I know I’m running out of time. I keep dozing off. Dreaming about everything I am avoiding in my awakening. It doesn’t matter. I am barely here, I am inside the movies. I am a poetess. A writer. A thief. A phoney and an artist, all in one. It’s too dark to discern that I am unreal.
Pick your battles.
An ode to unrequited love. My love. My life. Have-nots become have-beens and could-bes. You only want what you can’t have.
But I am happy (?)
Endorphins — much like my darling one — are aggravatingly beautiful and all the more likely to evade my calls.
But I never call.
Endorphins — much like my dearest none — slip through my fingers. Gone in a flash when you ask them to stay for dinner.
But do I ever ask? The words cuffed to my throat.
Imposter: unlike what the word denotes — doesn’t mean to impose. Then how come I feel its hold over me, sitting in cars with strangers. Sitting at the family dining table. Standing next to my father while he talks to a man. Being alive in this bed tonight.
Imitation is the greatest form of flattery, and I adore too much. I am only self-assured in my imitations of my loved ones — the only time when I feel I’m doing the right thing. I fantasize about yelling fuck-yous at anyone and everyone. I fantasize about putting men back in their place. But I never say anything. I’m only confident when I’m no longer contained in my body and mind. I feel like my anxiety is a synonym of cowardice. A convenient excuse. I am only alive in my fantasies. So there’s no using trying for the real world.
Imposter: when I’m afraid of the past and the future. Of happiness and misery. Of God and a life of sin. Of children and of love & solitude. Of family and friends. Of honesty and falsehood.
But I am happy (!)
