I just want someone who can be as crazy as I am.

This music is the cornerstone of my life, and without it I would fall apart. I just remember so much, and it's overwhelming, and even more terrifying is the things I may not remember. What I did on such&such night or whatever, but it's okay, right? I'm not crazy. Of course not. Who's crazy? Not me, not me, not me.

Is anything really worth writing about? Is writing at all worth it?

"What I Have to Give"

I could go through the dictionary in every language I know, could spell out the words that make my heartstrings hum, could try and share my thoughts on sounds and visions. I could do all of these things and more just for you, but it wouldn’t make a difference. Although I move and speak without effort, I also have no impact, which makes my entire life meaningless. What would you say if I told you? He wrote for me an ode, would you write for me a sonnet? He composed for me a suite, would you compose for me a symphony? He bought for me a mirror, would you buy for me an ivory tower? Can you make these promises? I think not, because you’ve yet to witness my selflessness, and what are promises if they have no backbones? They do nothing but fill the aether, like these useless words of mine. I hear them saying it again and again: you’re beautiful. They think your years leave you tarnished, but in my eyes, the many passing suns gild you. You are the old oak tree, shoulders curved by hard times and with many rings. I can’t come out and say it anymore than I already have, it hurts too bad to admit my weakness as is. I’ve floated in and out of these beds like a wandering wind, but you are my riptide, seizing me and never letting go. I could fight against these feelings, these vulnerabilities, but there’s no honor in dishonesty. Instead, I keep the cadence close to my breast and push the fear away. I don’t care anymore for the what-ifs and their cunning ways of fooling me. I remember when the words were satisfaction enough. They were the only savior I desired, but minds change, don’t they? People may not, with their bad habits like baggage, but minds are amorphous in their fluidity. I can’t take this any longer, and I will make these promises with the only strength I have left: my fading words. I could lie to you, and there’s no one to say I haven’t already, but these words mean the world to me. You are my sun’s breath, my amber, my opal, my jet, my round river stone, my ember, and my bruised moon. You are my foxglove, my wisteria, my daffodil, my tulip, my rosehip, my snapdragon, my orchid, my lavender, my poppy, my ivy, my baby’s breath, my lily, and my nightshade. You are my opium, my dead sea, my coffin, and my blood. You are my vicodin, my blade, my pistol, and my archangel. You are my cock, my cunt, my delirium, my euphoria, my submission, my dusk, my dawn, my twilight, my synthesis, my dust, my raindrop, my globe, my comet, my star, my mercury, and my oxygen. I need you more than even these words, as they do no justice to my desires. They mean nothing without you. I find no more use for rhyme or reason, reduced instead to just throwing together these letters in a composition I hope will be found comprehendible, because I’m past coherency. I’m losing my mind in these pages and I swear my soul is drained syllable by syllable—the energy is overwhelming. Is this what it feels like—insanity? If so, I wish I could tell you how it feels…like running through the snow without shoes and across the beach without clothes, like waking from a flying dream to realize you have wings, like laughing when you should be crying, like going to sleep and seeing fireworks behind your eyes, like feeling the hum of your favorite song coursing through your body. The dreams, the chill, the numb, the sleep, and the melody—it all sweeps you away, lets you hang from the sky like a bird on a wire. But, I pay in beats for blow, and trust me when I say it catches up. I’m tattered as an old rag doll, limbs limp and mouth cotton-dry. Is it worth it? I’m not sure, but it does grant me my dreams in a fashion. I have you, here in my arms, here in my world, if only for a little while. The panic does creep in with awareness, but the anxiety decays bit by bit and along comes courage. It’s no longer a question of lust, is it? No more fucking or fooling around, it wears me down and leaves me with glassy eyes. I swear I can show you what it’s like to live a dream instead of a life on a chain. To breathe air that is crisp as paper bags and thin enough to bite. I’ll tell you what it’s like to be truly happy once more and forever on. It’s waking up in a tent and unzipping the door, then going outside to find dew on the moss and newts in the river. It’s shaving your head and spinning in circles with arms outstretched in the afternoon sun, no matter the season, and until you fall the ground in a heap of dizzied joy. It’s running through the streets in a stupor of any sort and not being sure where you’re headed. It’s realizing that the place you stay is no house, but the place you live is a home. It’s calling to the birds and being willing to get stared at. It’s a pat on the back when you’ve done well and a teasing smack across the cheek when you’ve fucked up. It’s taking what you deserve, and forgetting the rest. It’s diving headfirst into water so cold that it hits you like a knife in the chest, followed by lying in the heat of the day. It’s amazing, it’s an achievement in itself, and it’s all you could ever wish for. It feels like being clean again, purity after such a long stint of self-destruction. It feels like heaven, floating in clouds soft as a breeze. It feels like having you here with me, with your fingers wrapped around mine.

I promised to fix what could not be fixed, and broke my promise all the same. I don't like to cross my legs any longer, I don't like to settle for less than what is owed. I think we have mice in our attic, and rats in the basement, and turtles in the yard. But that attic belongs to us, and the damned mice are wrecking havoc like tiny sledgehammers, like pills.

what happened to clicking clits? what's all this about choking chodes?
when did it become all about the dicks? what happened to the hoes?

I feel like a little bitch, sitting in an alcove and smoking cherry cloves. The feeling in my stomach is overwhelming, and I can taste the fear rising like vomit in my throat. I remember when he called me that, "a little bitch." It made me so furious, like I could see crimson and taste the blood before it hit my tongue. Now it just tinges my thoughts with apprehension, wondering whether or not I'm changing for the better. Why am I so unstable? I'm doing these things, I swear I am, but I can't believe it. I know you're worried, I know it know it know it. I'm remembering me and her, singing in the car as we sped down the road to some barely-known destination, knowing that these songs are our summer anthems together. Believe me, these are the confessions of a king. I am the master of my domain, and I am under my own control. Don't distrust in me, because this is going to work out for us. I am going to escape unscathed, slightly battered, and stronger for it all. I will be there when you really need me. Do you see how my thoughts are right now? Mad, terrified, anxious, vengeful, distasteful. You and I, do we belong here? There don't need to be words, I know they're safe, but they're unnecessary. So I try to calm myself, try to put on the mask we all know and cherish so dearly. I am not safe in my own skin any longer. You wonder why I've changed so drastically? I can't understand why these things have happened to me, or why I've caused myself so much agony. And, God, it hurts so bad. I go to sleep with tears running down my face, my face is cracked. I remember the runs she and I ran, the nostalgic nods towards our golden days, our golden nights of destruction. Our two-headed, monstrous creation of a creature... beautiful and ugly and massive and demure. It's sort of like I'm trying to grasp onto these tiny shards of glass, and all they do is slice into my hand and I'm left broken and bleeding. How could I resist? How could I?

Hello, deary.

Remember when we used to be near-best friends? Remember that? Do you think I'm so crazy that I would forget about you, that I would forget how much I love you? I'm nowhere near that crazy--not yet at least. Maybe this is why it hurts so bad, because you underestimate me. You underestimate me severely, and I can feel those threads we wove between us slowly tear, like we are gradually unraveling. It's not me, I can promise you that. I would never lose you if I had a choice. Instead, I'm watching you push me away, and there's nothing I can do. I'm no longer one of your priorities, am I? You're turning me away and I can take the hint: You don't care as much as I do. Of course, I understand... I mean, who does?

I'm hollow again. I am not.

I want everything, but I'm afraid I'll end up with nothing.