I'm terrified that I might run out of things to say, but God is watching over my shoulder as I write. Pop and Giovanni are my muses, no doubt. I hope they turn out to be helpful.

I'm afraid that I'm normal, and yet this is what I crave: being accepted for my differences.

I refuse to be ashamed any longer. Fuck me, for my flaws and my disasters, for I am a good one. I'm flying down every highway with the windows rolled down and my hair is a fucking tornado mess. I am a mess, a big massive mess. I have this, that-- and if you didn't know better, you'd think all was well, well, wouldn't you?

But here's the thing: I need you. I spend so much time wishing aimlessly, wandering through the dreams of others, I need to land. I need to walk among the others for a while, because I spend so much time flying around that my wings are sore, bloody pulpy sore wounds full of blood and gore. I hope you understand me, I fear the rest of the world doesn't.

If you think I don't mean you, don't be mad.

Maybe if I hold my breath, everything will stand still. The world will stop it's spinning flurry of winding crashes like toy cars and picture frames. Maybe if everything stops moving, I can finally catch my breath and heal.

Being in this disease is deadly. I feel trapped and controlled, manipulated by my own mind, as if I am no longer in the pilot's seat and I'm in autopilot going through these trances of start and finish. Racing thoughts, racing body. As if all I do is catch up, when all I want to do is rest. Let me rest here, lie her. Intention is the darkness tainting my vision and my blood, no longer the carnival horse pounding through my veins. Bless me, bless me.

I'm writing these letters in dead languages, forgotten words going through the phases of creationism, from first to finish. I can only imagine how hard it was for you to be born, whirling limbs going every which way as if you were born to multitask, to flit from one thought to the next.

Maybe I'm writing these letters so you won't read them, because I'm finally at a point where everything makes too little sense for me to disagree. I just want you to know that I'm still here, I'm still full of breath and living. Don't bury me standing or I'll die on my knees. I just want you to know that it's harder for me to not know than it is for me to bare the wound itself.

breathe me

I'm wanting to let you know that every time you set pen to paper, you're stealing my blood and I'm trying let you know that you've already stolen my heart. I'm tired of this hesitation, this predestination-- honestly, I'm tired of you without me. It's sickening to know that every moment I've compiled in my brain could very well be the last. This could be the last time we breathe, so let's breathe together.

I have this affinity for the air in my lungs that is almost inexplicable, except I know exactly why it's this way. I'm borne of the wind, God's tiny breath the sudden drumbeat of my pulse. China doll clock eyes ticking explicitly like I'm supposed to understand each dirty little secret. Heaven forbid I love. Heaven forbid, please.

Today I'm touching down to briefly explain my differences. Subtlety is security in my space, my cosmos of dysfunction and disorderly conduct. I know you wonder why I'm miles ahead/behind in certain aspects, and I'm here to let you know: my drum is broken. Fix it-- please!