terms if encagement RSS

Archive

Jun
23rd
Mon
permalink

I was a willow last night in my dream
I bent down over a clear running stream


The rest is too cheesy. You’re supposed to be the stream and according to them, you keep me alive. I really do feel like a willow sometimes: withered intentionally and bent over for distraction, hidden behind this accepted state of beauty. If normality even qualifies as an extent of beauty.  I have this self diagnosed neuroses that I don’t talk about for great fear of being deemed neurotic. I’ve learned to keep my mouth closed about things that I want. Only at the moment of getting to know a person do I let them know how I feel, but after a while one learns to single out the things they can’t talk about depending on who they’re talking to. Sometimes it’s everything, for fear of being foolish. I hate to think that my thoughts are going to waste, but I’m frightened you wouldn’t take it as magically as i do when I think it all up. I’d like to tell you that you’re more comfortable than a bed, that you smell powdery in the winter and like burning concrete in the summer (and i dream of it), that I like the way your hair falls out and kisses everything your head touches, that you’ve blinded me for everyone else, that you make me feel like you’re teaching me who to be.
Now that we’re close, it’s only been harder for me not to be impulsive with the sweet things I want to tell you. I’m scared of ending up like my mother, getting too used to my mouth and forgetting what’s morally inept. I’ve been trying to weed out what’s wrong and right, trite and cheap, nubile and stale, but I want to give it all to you. It scares me that I want you so much closer because I don’t want to be weaker in my own hands. I can feel myself becoming more and more of an infant. I want to ask you for help, but that would be hypocritical.

Lately, the worst part of me has been showing. I’m sorry for that, but if at one point you were trying to tell me I was wrong, well there’s nothing to have been wrong about. Everything seems to be a misunderstanding between us, and maybe we do it intentionally. Or maybe just me. I’m really sorry. I’m always sorry. No one ever really says it enough, but I mean it every time. Sometimes I’m just not sure what I’m sorry about. I’m not sorry that I love you most, though.