Tag Archives: confusion

Tears Unshed

Repeat. Of how I felt years ago. Oh I worry. Of you. More of me. The thought of not having you here…to call every morning. To seek advice. I tremble at the thought. You call so often now, as if you know how hard it is for me to talk to you. At least, when you’re frozen in time like..this. This man. This man I talk to way too loud. This man I explain myself to more times than necessary. I think I won’t be okay this time. I need you here. Not the flesh. Not the meat suit that wears your clothes. No, for he is not you. My, ..my. I can not find the words I need. I need you. Where do I go without the yang to my ying? Without my guardian? Without,. my Father? I try my best to ignore your calls. To ignore this situation as it sits. I do not seek attention, but rather a distraction. From where I sit now. In life that is. For a life without you is not one I want to imagine. And you thought I didn’t need the anxiety medicine. Pshh, I need it more now than ever. I need you to know how much you have made me the person I am today. I would not be here without you. I am lost, still, now. Waiting for you to come back to me. I know you’re in there somewhere. You have to be. Because if you are not, I am already gone.

CTRL

Let the silence embellish our worries with sin. I look at how hard I try. It sickens me as I think of how fast my mind goes and how you can’t keep up. I see this color. On my nails, my hair, my skin. It saddens me to think how I’ve changed. If only you could see under this scarred flesh. This facade. These words don’t come out right but I stumble on what I really want. This lust and hatred. It’s a tainted potion. I don’t practice witchcraft but I am a master in destruction. I specialize in self destruction. You bring that out in me. Isn’t it grand? This control you have over me? This ruthless need for me to hear your voice. Seek your approval.

Interviews With Myself

I find you peculiar in ways I see myself as an issue. I am not the answer you’re searching for darling. Remind me again to tell you my life story though I do not trust you just yet. I think you’re in over your head my love. I think not. For me to be in over my head I must first have a head to be in over. I’m mad as a hatter but sold as a child of this institution. I know not of God but of this world. Is there a problem? The solution will never be in you. Or in me. But rather it is unknown until it is seen. Ever heard of believing without seeing? A task for fools I’m sure. I’m nervous when I make you uncomfortable. This is not my intent rest assured. I think I see too much of me in you. I overcompensate for my fucked up past by asking you too many things I wonder about myself. I don’t think I’ll ever be okay. You see, there is a gap, a blank space, a missing chunk of my life where I need to find the missing puzzle pieces. This game of psychology I play is more for me. See a therapist you recommend? Oh I think not. I find you far too curious about me. What answers are you seeking and why would you think I have them. Stored away for safe keeping. These cold chills I get are less of the weather affecting me and more of your affect on me. I say things I mean and never say things I don’t mean. The trouble I find myself in is when I don’t ask the things i want to and instead keep my intentions hidden from you because I’m afraid of your judgement.

Nausea

I remember him like it was yesterday. Standing there in that tell nothing secretive way. His silhouette drenched in lustful wonder. I remember those eyes basking down at me. He always did have such peculiar expressions. I miss those days, so simple. I recall one in particular when he spent what seemed like a lifetime studying my face. As though he was taking notes and studying hard for some test. Oh and the tests. Relentless. I can barely keep my breakfast down. The nausea radiates through me mocking the radiation therapy. Funny how before you can begin to get any better, you must at first feel much worse. Although some days I don’t mind all the prodding and probing. The needles and the repetitive questions. “Ma’am, can you tell me your full name?” The nurse asks in a monotone voice. “My name is Jordan Allie Sumner and my birthday is three twenty-one ninety-five”, I reply without missing a beat. The nurse almost looks irritated I already knew the next question. I do wish I had a better memory so I wouldn’t have to refer to each of them simply as “the nurse”. However, I feel like they must have an assembly line of nurses; sure to send in a different one for each task in an effort to keep me constantly dazed and confused. I often dose off between treatments. And for whatever reason, I’m assuming my dire need to escape from my own reality, I always fall back into the same dream. I dream often of this man. I see myself lying in this very hospital bed, I see a profile of an older more classic looking gentleman by my bedside. I can never bring up the nerve to speak to him for he’s far too stunning for me to comprehend. I merely lay there, gazing upon his beauty. Yearning to kiss him, to run away with him far from here. Anywhere really. Suddenly he leans down and I can feel my heart leap in hopes he’ll kiss me. He never does. He always says the same nine words. “Would you like me to eat your cancer Miss.Sumner?” And I always reply, “By all means Sir, please do.”

Heavy

Heavy is the head. Heavy is the stress that ways on the body and mind. Heavy is the mallet that ends the stress that weighs on the head. Heavy is that hand that guides me through life. Heavy is my heart as I battle with uncertainty. Heavy is the darkness that creeps through my window keeping me up at night. Heavy are my worries that unsettle the dead. Heavy is my hand pecking on this keyboard. And heavy is this headache from contemplating all that is heavy.

Paradise

And he sways and he swoons like a bird in paradise. Lost in himself and the joys of this new found escape. No one here. No one there. Not a care within himself. So free for all to see. No worries, concerns, or 3rd degree burns; to his ego. Simple lust. Complicated love. An understanding of who he is, and who he isn’t. Oh sweet bird, please do swing low for me. Let me clasp onto your wings of injustice and soar high with you. For I’m far too sore from far too many accomplishments I’ve never achieved. I wish time would stand still, and that the wind wouldn’t. I wish the rain never stopped and the clock on our sorrow-some ways did. I wish these things because I have nothing left to wish for. To hope for. To dream of. Only you. Only you do I dream of, and the many ways you make me swoon.

Six Feet Under

And here she walks again. All over me. Her trophies stacked so high I can merely dream of ever touching one. I have no trophies to show. No home to go home to. No secret escape. No Plan B. Ha, what about a Plan A for starters? No plans at all. Great plan. I remember that street. Where we once stopped to smell the roses. Where I sat astonished at you and all your glory. All your secrets. Such a lone creature you must be. Locked away for all those years pretending to be someone you’re not. I miss the fake you. The one that had no genuine side. No intellect. Just good bone structure. Good posture. Good lies to tell. Because if you are as shallow as you seem, (which you’re not) then you are much easier for me to grasp. For me to contemplate. All these complications though, all these emotions. It’s not good for my health. But where does good health get us anyway? We all end up in the same place. Six feet under.