Long slow fall to the cold stare of the middle distance

These long hours of silence
Of hearing white noise hearts and swift blood
Attenuation
Feeling cotton abrasion from old cloth pressed down against skin
The soft of new starched straight yet pliable
These textured off white walls and bed splashed crimson hoping to wake in core some semblance of joy

But the quiet stretches out
And too tired soul
Weary from fighting for smiles and hopes
Falls to knees
Beaten without solace

The shiver as hair raises against skin pushing out
Adrenaline wanting nothing more than a few minutes until exhaustion leads its way through collapse
The beckoning oblivion of sleep
To dream of lives unlived
To be for those few minutes happy

An edifice collapsing under the weight of its needs
Too much for any person to sustain
That subtle lack of home
While house stands

Places feel so empty
Without

Trace of limits

To ascend as if a bird
foundering foundation falls away
only scant skin separates faith from fall
Drought as diamond
base desire wars with ascent
Solitude in flight
destination unknown
nazca lines embroider
faint markings
of a dwindling civilization
A filter on the self
Dwindling down to these few grains
Lost in the pleasure of being
Hold in arms grown weary
One last choice
Last chance

Brutal introspection

I can never leave well enough alone. I always push, always want more than is there to be had. Some of that comes from a deep feeling that every person I truly care for is going to leave me. If they see the part of me they’ll hate, they’ll leave.  Or instead, I choose to associate with people who don’t want me, or are taken in some way.  Be it their own lives, their relational entanglements, or their mental state. And if, by some miracle, I find someone who likes me, I will push and push for more and more until they have no choice but to walk away or sacrifice their own sanity, which I’ll see and walk away to save them.  I don’t know how to stop this.  I think I’ve learned, each time and each time I fuck up.  Now, the fuck ups are all a little different. But, they are variations on the theme. The happier I am, the more likely I am to self sabotage.

The other part comes from seeing myself as a monster. For the things I’ve done and the things I’m capable of.  For who could love a monster, such as I.  And if you could, why? Pity? Martyrdom? I won’t have love from either. 

At the end of the day, I’m fucked up. And despite how much less fucked up I am now, as compared to when I started this journey, I still have a long road. A long road I fear I’ll never see the end of.