Loose Steps

I would still come to you if I were asked to...
I do what I'm told more than I lead on.
You have more control than you realize.

This is why I pull away. This is why I push.
Sometimes it takes awhile to realize not all intentions are bad ones.
Sometimes it takes awhile to realize that being "kept" isn't exactly life's end.

People have given away so many times... a heart and body loan... the idea just felt so foreign.
Something that seems to be unheard of... in my little circle.
But the idea sounds so perfect when my feet are on the ground.

Helping Hand

The tiny box reads "helping hand"... the irony tickles me with each slice.
No. The irony is miserable and I don't "need a hand" like this.
Cut free, no blood spills... it's this I whisper...

"I really thought that we could have a conversation.
I thought that if I could get there I could shake this."

But my mouth and mind get in the way everytime we get this close.

Maybe one day you'll find me running;
I'll trip over myself and you'll take my hand and help me up.
(the kind of helping hand I've needed)

desperately seeking my good name

Am I really this desperate?
Desperately seeking sleep... dreading dreams... or nightmares.
Desperation and dread consumed the butterflies.
Work consumes the time I planned to re-paint my nails and dye my hair.
Work work work.
Excuses to not eat and sleep.
Excuse me when I fall dizzy.
Detoxing... in more ways than one.

And today I told her goodbye forever in our own little way. She knew what I meant. I never messed that one up because I could speak in code and with one nod and glance she knew. She knew this chapter was done... and she smiled. She was never one to mind.

Shake it off. Just shake it off... like you could never.
And instead of consuming beverage tonight I take a long hard drink of thought.
And it fills me... up up up and away.
And I realize how far away I got... from myself and from what truly defines me:
And it's not...
It's not the lack of discipline I learned on the road.
It's not chaos and debauchery.
Cheap sex dreams with women or the cheap thrills I'd get from making you sigh.

And now I am ready... to get back to me... and leave this all behind...

Fear Makes Me Slow

I am impossible.
Impossible to love.
Impossible to love "too much" or "enough" to actually show up.

I make it difficult. I am difficult.
It's difficult to see through this smog that has collected around my face.
Masking me from a world of vulnerability.
Making me slow. With caution. No, with ignorance.
It's hard to be knowledgeable when you can't see a damn thing.

And I blow dry my hair straight and shiny.
And I spray on, lay on... more aqua net... more nonsense.

I have my eggs in about 14 different baskets, 6 states, a couple socks, and one sits shiny behind a toilet in a Philly apartment I once occupied. I am spread out. I am all over the place.

I am ruining this on purpose.
I am doing this on purpose.
I could just as easily become a collection agent.

But my foot has been out the door for months on end... and the months turn to a year and still, my foot is there... and it's tired.

And I know.
I know I am ruining this on purpose.
And I realize...
That finally I don't want to.

It's just this habitual mouth.
The habit of safety in offensive words and abrasive ideas.
It's wrapped tightly around me... a blanket of steal scraps and fishing line...
And I cannot breath.
And I am so scared of the cold that might come if I take a breath full enough to snap out of this.

And I scream and scream and scream - You cannot hurt me, I will hurt you first(!)
So why am I the one who's crying?
Why does fear makes me so slow to realize?
I am hurting myself.

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Today is the day I start collecting the many pieces of myself I have allowed to get away from me... or have too easily given away to strangers... past lovers... and the undeserving. Today is the day I get to the root of my own bullshit and allow myself to feel the discomfort of not knowing, not being protected, and being powerless to hurt someone else with my self-made jagged edges. File me down. File me away.

Walk Away

When did you curl up and die inside yourself?
Was your death at my hand?
I remember something so different.
I should walk away at the sight of beauty...
I should have walked away.

Weakness -in- Connecting

This is where I'll sink my heels into the ground and dig my nails into your chest
My roots are pushing deep down in
My roots are growing weak....


....and thin

I am not what I once was.

I am not what I once was.
I am grateful. I regret.
I am a walking talking skipping record...
again and again these words come and go.
And just like most things...
when they go they are gone.
Nothing to you. My words. The anger.
"It will be different" "It will get better"
No more ranting replies from me... just a repeated question...
over and over and over and over again.
WHEN?

Five years is a pretty long investment.
But still I question who has done the most investing.
It's a really selfish question and I almost always hate myself for asking.
But fuck you. Seriously. We both know the answer.
We both wish we didn't and so there's not much left to do.
(except perhaps) Repeat. (and we do)

You say "I love you" and I say "I'm sorry but your loves just not working."
Because you're not working... and I always am.
You see how that doesn't work?

And I do love you but I am self-battered and always on the verge...
of psychotic break.
Broken like your promises... and I know it's my own god damn fault(!)
If I were the woman you destroyed, post-damage
...you might listen again and mean the things you say.
But I mean nothing. My words fall on deaf ears. And the more they fall the more cruel they become... and I am not what I once was.
I was my greatest sacrifice...
To your alter of lies and rehearsed regret.

And you tell me I can't leave you... and I think, maybe there's only one way out.