Making Hunger a Habit

It's as if I am sewing a garment, but allowed only one stitch a day. Each tiny loop clings to the last, so hopeful this time it will make good. But a hunger tells me to pull up my work. So the thread goes pop in my hands... I'll undo a week's worth... just to make the need stop. In anguish, I pull up another row. But no good taste lasts long enough to contain the swells of regret. I'm my own worst enemy, can I ever be trusted. I will myself... just one more try. But I know the outcome before I begin. The same as last time, the same as tomorrow, the same until time runs out. If only I could make hunger a habit. Then I'd amount to more than just unraveled string.

Muse

Forever a figment of my imagination. Always my underlying inspiration. Gently you tug with your languid kisses, exhaling new life in me... oh my muse. Help me mount a sojourn with fire and fortitude; the kind that only you can inspire. Pull me along. Push me up. I've let myself fall such a long, long way. Make me a testament of things that can be done. I want to feel beautiful again. 

Honestly

Should soothing a defensive nature merit an unclear telling of the facts? When truth be told... I lay it bare with the cutting precision that my nature dictates. Still, I wish I retained some level of softness. But I can't imagine that, by taking one, and adding the other, it doesn't contain, in it, an air of manipulation. It casts a shadow of deceit on the unadulterated truth. And If I use my femininity as a tool it tarnishes the very essence of both. I could never abide a dishonest concession in service of easing the pain. But it's your mercy I ask for, if even I can't offer you mine. Please, don't withhold your affection... on account of my honesty.        

Why Fi

Life's tedious moments don't hold the same sway as a click and a swipe. Self-stroking, rubber necking, showing off and comparing (all with no retraction) in this internet age. Stunned drunk while we gawk at 3am on the john. Tender wishes translate into the sincerest of 'likes.' It's as if we'd have no connection at all... if it wasn't for our internet wifi. 

The Ocean is as Time

A wave is the same bit of ocean, but for a moment elapsed in time. The water falling away is our past... ever slipping more behind us. The future is lifted up in front... just one drop at a time. Only in the rolling crest are we truly present. It's in those moments that our vital energy resides. It's only there we can exert some power. Because in the end, your last tomorrow, will come as a wave breaking on the sand. And it will have been the moments that moved us there. 

Still Still

Running away by standing still... how perfectly suited I am. I can't suffer discomfort to see my way through. I slide back to the same point and pace. Another day, another list. Contemplating change is apparently all the satisfaction I need. 

Independent Isolation

I don't know what I'd rather be doing, if it isn't just escaping. But I made a mistake living my life as if everything were an intrusion. I should have been nurturing deep relationships instead of pretending to be a bulwark all on my own. When I was younger I thought I would never need anyone. I prided myself on that idea. My motto was, don't ask me for anything and I'll return the favor. But that's stingy, thoughtless and cruel. I'm too quickly discouraged, disinterested and determined to avoid things. I sold myself solitude, the fault is my own. Independence has a cost and loneliness is the price. 

Insatiable Appetite

You feel unbound and unapologetic until it's all over. That's the false sense of entitlement; it's a precursor to a binge. I've exhausted all my restraint, unbridled gorging is all that's left. It takes over, and it's wielded like a fit of rage. I want to turn my examined feelings to ashes. My circumstances into charred wood. But what freedom is there to be had by breaking rules put in place for my own benefit? How much more powerful would I feel if I handled my discomfort with grace, holding myself up to the confines of a higher decorum?

Resounding Silence

Stories only ever reach me by the third or fourth telling. That's as close to "confided in" as I ever seem to get. People must see me as prodding and probing... or prying... when really I'm just trying to invite myself in. Tell me a secret and I promise I'll keep it. Polite conversation always trails away...

Fabricated and Romanticised

You were fabricated and pieced together by my own lonely heart. Carefully romanticised; constructed by my own lies. Contrived notions of "you and me" fade into my memory. My joy was reduced to a feeble plea... in an empty room.