Prose.

Thursday, October 05, 2006

Stage Left.


I tell myself it's over, and if you said those words to me again, could I honestly say them back and mean it?

Well for now, I think I could.
I hate everything about you. I hate the way you talk to me, the way you look at me, the way you walk away from me. And more than that, I hate the way I hate you.
Because truth be told, I don't really hate you at all.
I still love you.



And how many times have I been told that I'm wrong? Well, I've certainly moved on, and I'm in love again. I hate to tell you this, but I have a new daybreak. And at night, when I go to sleep, there is a different dream I have. It would be easy for me to lie to you again and say that we've got nothing, but I am not a liar anymore.

When the wind blows to the West I will tie my shoes and leave this city.
Everything that is familiar to me has been beaten into my head with the same shameless repetition as it has since I was first taken there.
Soon I will escape, and on the back of the van, I take my leave.
I will make my exit without you.




Wednesday, October 04, 2006

It's not my fault I'm a Tory.


How I long for winter coats and tights under the tightest-fitting jeans the high street could offer me. Steaming coffee and waiting in the park for the street lamps to come on until your fingers are blue. Well, we always miss what we don't have, but as soon as I have it, maybe I will at last be content. I'd like a hand to hold to keep mine warm, a glove to share, a fire to huddle over with someone just as cold as I. If I don't let myself get cold, I won't be.

Coming home late, your breath a sharp contrast to the darkness that settled barely later than 4, and sitting up until the early hours of the morning, wrapped in a duvet, but only truly being warmed by one person.
Oh, how cliche this all sounds. But for once, it's all true. When the Summer dies, so does bare skin and heat exhaustion. At least in the cold you have a better reason to move.



I love the feeling of being vulnerable. How I've always longed to be watched, to be intriguing, and for people to look at me and wonder where I'm looking, who I'm calling, where I'm going. I will run around these streets until midnight, tearing at my skin and screaming till my throat bleeds, and I will collapse onto this cold paving and shake and cry, and lie in wait for you to return.
How I think I'd kill for a desert island and the sea, the warmth of the sand on my back. But we grow to love what we have learned to despise - we learn to promote what we are taught to disagree with.


Wednesday, October 04, 2006


Winter.


"Literate and stylish,
Kissable and quiet."

That, supposedly, is what girls' dreams are made of. You know you don't have to tick these boxes. You like to pretend that you don't care what I think of you, and you don't care what anyone thinks of you, but maybe that's just the thing you fear the most. You've grown so accustomed to pushing all that's good away, that I doubt you even notice you're doing it anymore. You say you can easily find a riddle of reasons to blame it on yourself, but isn't that what you always try to do? It just puts forward another candidate for who's heart to go breaking next.

I did not do this intentionally. And it's true, I've spent so long trying to understand just what is wrong every night that I doubt I could ever even understand it myself anymore. It feels so good saying "I'm not bad thanks, you?" when asked how I am that I soon forget that it couldn't be farther from the truth.
I am such a liar.



She doesn't think this winter will be as bad as the last.
If only I could agree. I will fend off the cold with every piece of armour on my body, but I don't doubt that it will still somehow find a way to penetrate. If only I could keep on top, maybe I'd win this once. Well, I hope for her sake this winter is kind to us both, and if not for me, just for her. It is hardly long since she felt that cold before, and it is not a thing I would wish on anyone, especially someone I call a friend.
And this year I swear, if my armour is pierced, it will not show.

This maelstrom surrounding my heart cannot be beaten.
Especially by the likes of you.









Tuesday, October 03, 2006

Take Apart Your Head.


What makes you think you should be so different?

Of all the people that have tried over these past few years, nobody yet has done it. Nobody yet has reached the core, and though we've tried so hard, it's still a mystery.

Well, I wonder if you know yourself at all. Sitting in the turret of the castle you've grown to know so well, I wonder what you think when you look down on us all out here. The real world isn't such a pretty place, afterall, and I hardly think the winter a good time for you to take apart my head.


Tuesday, October 03, 2006


Time your kill.


I never asked just to be a waste of your time.

And God knows, I've tried hard enough, we both have.

But I can't say you've tried your best to make me feel valued in a world where almost everything is just the opposite, valueless. If every time you ever said hello was just you killing time, then every time I ever replied was me carefully inserting my arrow into this bow,

Pulling the trigger, pulling the trigger.

I'm what you'd call anonomous, a nameless source, faceless, shapeless.

Maybe one day you'll have the courage to say this outright;

You don't trust me. You never trusted me all along.





And I hate to break it to you, but being a coward is not a legitamate carreer.






Sunday, October 01, 2006

Are you even listening?

Or do you just sit behind your computer screen and watch as we spill our fucking hearts through a keyboard, typing hard at you with each punch you throw back down the phone line. And still, you don't say a word.
Well, I could lose everything I own to you and I still don't think you'd believe you were any different as a person. You're full of this self-righteous bullshit, you've never even known the meaning of the word alone. And there's so many people just pandering after your attention while you know full well that you're so much better than them, so much better than all of us.
It's sick how any of us could ever even believe you were right for us in the first place.
Well, lets say this for the last time.
You're not right.
You could never be right, not if you wrote alot of words, played alot of chords for the rest of your life.