Ala Sandman

They say that there are times in life where we must either change, or die.

Does running away count as changing?

I'm a genius

It all makes sense. Finally. Maybe those pills and that headache and the way my knees gave when I stood, shook the delusion out of my system; a slow breaking and mending of blood and bone.

I'm not that love of your life-lie that you can't forget or forgive yourself for leaving -or hurting, for that matter. You seem to be perfectly fine, forgetting and leaving and hurting, over and over and over again. I really am just that back up you run to everytime you need to confirm any bit of self-worth that arrogance of yours lets slip; a test of tears and stupidity. "The girl (you) run to whenever (you) need to feel special" "a lifesaver."

And what happens to me? What happens when I need to feel? What happens when I can't find the strength in me to stay afloat, when I can't seem to weave my way through Manila traffic?

Nothing.

And that's..okay..really, it is..everything is just..okay..

Phrases, phrases; like phases of her faces

fingers stumbling, backspacing into casual conversation
left reeling with so little of myself to hold onto..again, that is
feet bumbling into a strange pitter patter of a trance,
lips pursed into a cold, hard secret
front limbs dangling by a shoulder, each

taken apart from the inside out, slowly, all too familiar in form

I need

..to write; free of complications, assumptions, aggravations, and Assumption, really -that close-minded convent can just break into two and drop straight dead to hell, as far as the freedom of speech activist in me is concerned..to write; like a soft kiss dropped onto the curve of your perfect cheek, like an "iloveyou" left tingling on your neck, like my hands sinking and floating and running across that skin..to write; like a promise beneath sheets, and giggles and sighs that never get far past the walls -or so we'd like to think, like my fingers laced in yours -but never for too long.

And this is why I fall into fiction, time and time again..because I've gotten too used to weaving in and out of lives like Manila traffic.

The convenience of forgetfulness

Times like this I wish I could indulge in vices other than alcohol -although some Vodka'd be good, too; and not hate myself.

For now, I'll indulge in you..and the half smiles you manage to get me to remember, in the secrecy of one-sided conversation.

Straightjackets are so in this season

I'm the girl who's played the supporting role; I'm the one who'll slam into the spotlight. Want to uncomplicate things? Tell me you love me. Wait no don't..I've walked into this scene, before. So don't..you can't; your sketch says you never say anything you mean. You just run to me when you need to feel special -not that I mind..all I'm out to be, is part of your life.

Go ahead, drive me insane.

Well this is dumb dumb dumb dee dumb dee dumb. Well what do you expect? Where's that little brain of mine, why, flying off to Frisco with a single luxury line passenger on, everytime -three guesses who.

No, not her. Not her. Not him!!

Oh lookie lookie, you've already driven me way past insane..silly little pieces of my system that you've shot straight through, off to Frisco, jetstreaming with you.