leftover consequences from running the show (or, "you get to watch as my mind untangles itself", or something to that effect.)

what the fuck is wrong with me these days?

so I wrote some things down in a card because you're leaving tomorrow, and to give this card to you before you go seems like the only thing to give you that even remotely makes sense.

but then I wrote some other stuff too. and then a bunch of things fly past me that having nothing to do with anything, or maybe they have everything to do with everything. like I come here, to write, or maybe I sit in a starbucks or whatever (and by the way, I'm slowly transitioning to using capital letters, it's weird though) so, I write, and I do it because I have to, because I Need To. and then I compulsively will check my site to see if anyone has left a comment under something, to say hello or to tell me I'm brilliant, or to see if mark geary has shown up to say, hey, I'm crazy too but yes I remember ya and why don't we get coffee and talk about the shit our minds tell us sometime?

why, if I have to write for me, am I still compelled to seek out approval or comments or validation or what have you? because almost no one writes back, and I keep writing anyways, which is how I know at least in this forum that I'm not full of shit. is it human? is it some deep-rooted aspect of my addiction? is it the girl deep inside me that doesn't give a shit about whether or not she was a dork a long time ago, or maybe still is, but still secretly cares sometimes and wants to be cool? all the while being fully aware that I am me and that in and of itself, that is beautiful? that it doesn't cripple me anymore is staggering to me still?

shit now I'm rambling about and I'm writing wondering who is going to read. time and time again, I have to have it beaten into me that I just need to be me and do my thing, whatever that means at the moment, and that it will lead me to places better than any shit I could figure out for myself. back to the coffee shop tonight:

(scene - purple velour armchair in the corner, headphones on, damien rice in my ears, a little bit of TB before I get into what I wanted to say)

can I sit here
and write this
without you lingering
under my skin?

and come to think of it
not even you
have entered my bones
plenty has gotten under my skin
but few things
if any
linger
in my bones...

she's already left me
or should I say,
I've already grown accustomed
to living without her.

they took all of her things today
and raised the devil's very fare
after she was out to sea
and didn't have the option
to say no
anymore

my cat loves wilco
and is fearful
of men and plastic bags
although she strangely endeared herself
to The Boy.

I've come here to escape
my addictions
and I'm left
curled up in the corner
with snapshots of you
in my aching hands -

I'll write on the wrong side of the page
because I don't have
the right pen.

you've packed up your socks
a broken coffeepot
and your double goodbyes
and I have to say again
that I'm lighter
since I met you
as I stand here
holding a straw
with no one to hand it to
and no one to love
that I take so long
to get it right...

from halting hellos
to weeping goodbyes
we're both off
for better things
it seems
from both sides of the window:
the airplane,
and where I sit
tonight.

~~~~~~~~~

these days
shifting
in my coccoon
wondering why it's my heart
that's always breaking...
the coccoon better known as
a two bedroom with an ocean view,
watching the movie you told me to.
do a private striptease
a late blooming butterfly
due out at the end of springtime
watched only by a few...