Looking for kindred spirits.
Deeply uninterested in participating in my own mundane life.
I think I’ll always feel somewhat oppressed by my inability to be everything and everybody at once.
Sometimes, I feel like my hunger and desires are eating me alive. I try to stay calm and can’t. I want the whole world in my hands. I have a wanderlust so strong it burns a hole through the roof of my mouth. Life here just isn’t enough — I’m constantly starved, constantly asphyxiated. I’m always running away, but I’m still running in place.
There’s a part of me that thinks about you every time I put on dark lipstick, every time I zip up my combat boots, every time I’m dressed all in black five days in a row, every time I tell a man to fuck off, every time I tell a boy to fuck me, every time I sit down at this desk to write a story about the kind of girl I used to stupidly idolize and the kind of girl I’m becoming. Sometimes I feel like one of our stories, just a few steps removed — I could smoke, I could drink more often, I could go out without knowing how the hell I’m getting back home. But it only seemed appealing when I was alone in that quiet bedroom of mine, knowing (I thought) that no one would ever want me, that I’d never be cool or pretty enough, and all the bullshit you believe when you’re 14 and everyone feeds it to you. And you lost your shine too, finally. I lost you so long ago and it took me so long to just let that be. It took so long to forget your appeal. I thought.
I miss you again. Out of nostalgia, out of discomfort, out of pride. I keep looking for ways to make it out of here, and my mind wanders to all the road trips we planned to take when we were young and naive, listening to “Forever Young” while we talked about leaving home. I think I’m losing my best friend, which makes me alone again, which always reminds me of you. I want to burn down everything I have and only have you, a road, a car, some few sentimental trinkets. But you were only some abstract ideal, and you’re gone, so I play with what I have — trying not to destroy them in the process, trying not to destroy me. I get restless and bored and uneasy a lot. I forget our friendship was never that real in the first place, so you can be my hero and my escape again. We’re better than ever now that we haven’t talked in years. You can be everything I want you to be.
It’s all for the best, it’s all for the best, it’s all for the best.
We grow too fast, too far apart. We speak different languages every time we see each other. We throw around empty syllables and wait for gravity to do the work. It’s always fallen into place, one way or another. But not this time. This time, I throw syllables like they are razor blades and wait for them to dig a whole into your heart. I always thought I’d do anything for us not to be strangers. I always thought I’d fight. And I did. But I don’t anymore. I let gravity do the work and let it all fall out of place, let it all break to pieces. I lie in bed and cry. It’s the loneliest thing, but we are becoming the loneliest place I know.
I feel: dizzy, uprooted, uncertain. She says, “How are your symptoms this week?” and I feel like a fool. There are no symptoms this week, but it doesn’t stop me from biting my lip. I swallow back a sudden passion for crying. I try not to scratch myself out of my skin.
This is anger.
I feel: lightheaded. I can’t tell if I’m being crushed or lifted. I’ve carved a home in my alienation. I’ve found beauty in my secession. I’m free; I’m an animal in a cage.
This is enlightenment.
I feel. The urge to run into the night, into the streets — watch the sky pour its moonlight on my back while I sync my steps with my breathing. The urge to scream, to make this voice bounce off the wall and echo into the vast emptiness I watch from my balcony. The urge to touch, to surrender to the sin of flesh, to sink my teeth into his shoulder, to watch his hands trace paths on my skin. The urge to breathe so deep I’d break my ribs. It’s not enough to be quiet, not enough to be barely content. I’m too alive to live with weight; give me depth, give me light, give me anything and everything.
This is hunger.
This is life.
There’s a hunger in my heart that cannot be quieted, but I am stuck in this cage
Everything is boring nowadays.
Yesterday’s future is here already. And I wanted it so bad, but I’m wasting it away. Ungrateful child always. She says, “What’s wrong with being content?” and I need to correct myself — “I’m not really; I’m unfulfilled.” I don’t know what I’m chasing. I don’t know what I’m looking for. I’m still running (I know I always say this); I wish it didn’t have to be like this (It doesn’t, does it?) I’m wasting everything away. So much ambition and no motivation. I don’t want to be like this, but I have no will left for any other way. It’s all decaying anyway. My body falls apart a little more every day. I know I’m wasting everything away.
Everything is bleak nowadays.
I don’t know how to love you today. Or yesterday. Or Friday. My mother doesn’t know how to love you anymore either; she pointed fingers with a calm, even voice that stopped my sobbing cold. It all felt like blasphemy, but I nodded like a heathen. It was a Friday. The bathroom tiles were cold under my feet. She said, “Get dressed — this looks like a bad movie.” I didn’t know how to love you in the grand scheme of things that felt fucked at that exact minute; I don’t know how to love you in the fog of everything now. It’s Sunday. I need to be in bed. I need to have done something several, several, several hours ago — but I spent it all fleeing this. Fleeing this cold terror. I feel you slipping through my fingers, but I cannot point fingers if we are both responsible (and we are both responsible in our own absurd ways.)
It’s a Monday. I’m throwing small words around, trying to encompass feelings so big they scrape the ceiling. You understand, until you don’t, and suddenly you need to. I play tough behind a cellphone screen. You play calm. And like always, it’s your kindness that drives me mad. In moments like these, I don’t know how to love you without being cruel. I regret doing all of it like this — no safety rails, no stop button. You let me scream, and it is a bitter thing to scream alone in silence. A part of me still howls by the time you conclude that you are sorry. A part of me still howls now. I don’t know how to love you, and nothing feels this lonely.
I feel so whole tonight; everything is blissful and peaceful and uncomplicated.
I’m losing my French. I spent so much time in awe of a new laptop that I couldn’t notice the missing letters until it was too late — gone are the accents, both aigu and grave. I couldn’t notice until I wrote back to a grandmother who has waited too long for any word of mine. To a grandmother who sends a follow-up email full of impatience and accidental shouting — HELLO??? I write back disoriented. The letter E is naked. I don’t know how I live so fragmented. I fight for and against being Americanized. Slipping to French feels like forcing myself into childhood jeans. But now and then, when I try to speak and the words don’t come out like they once did, I blame myself ro being too big. Misplaced in this adult body. Misplaced in this foreign tongue.