February 21, 2014 - 8:41 p.m.
Bax
Sometimes you just get catapulted back into this space of adolescent rage-turned-apathy.
where you feel so much that is amorphous that it shuts you down at the core
like leaving is the easier thing, even if it's the awkward, thick, choice
one you'll have to cut your way back through to force reentry when you've calmed down and decided it's safe
no matter how ...
fucking awkward
to slink back into the room
where you'll pretend to swallow your words
even though you mean none of it
and you fully stand by everything you said,
because you were the only one listening
and if you could just have a conversation with yourself
it would all make sense.
but you can't and you're talking circles around people you're trying to articulate yourself to
who are chained somewhere in the centre
missing your point entirely.
so you leave
being made to feel so insensitive
like death doesn't cut you
like you don't cry at kittens
and over and over and over
spilt milk.
it's not about that
and you feel as thick with conceit as the horrified shock they feel at how calloused your thick skin is
when they see how unmoved you are...
by the ultimate trump card.
death.
and that's beside the point
because death
altready happend and will happen
"if i see it differently fine.
cause i do."
What fucking nerve.
Now in you waltz, telling me about the connections you make to the triggers themselves
finger squeeze,
but you don't have to mention them. You just assume that I mention them in my head... while pretending
out loud
that none of these things need to be said aloud
you don't understand my anger.
you don't care to.
Maybe if you'd had two close friends totally disappoint you, excuses in hand
like they thought you were stupid enough to believe that there was no other way.
Maybe if death hadn't sloped its way onto the lap of every attempt you'd made to haul old relationships out of the dust and breathe life into them...
waiting for a minute where you were allowed to be purely selfish.
only for your discomfort of confrontation to cause the same knee jerk burial
of any real reaction
feel your emotions more quietly
less intensely
please.
it's like muting and shaming
me, women, woman-me into
feeling more quietly.
How can you not, on some level
analogize the shit out of this
situationally, no aspect of this is inevitable:
a) the tickets were for two. he died.
- you can't split a dead man's tickets in two and take a friend
b) they were all four supposed to go
- you knew you couldn't make it from the get go. and you've now lost a close friend. looks like we were the double booking and tragedy struck.
c) or perhaps, post-death. suddenly. and in a fit of post-mortem desire to travel, you feverishly booked three tickets for a date you've now double booked.
Then you 1, (because a and b are exhausted) tell the newly-widowed... "hey, I'm sorry, but 57 days from now you are going to probably be okay and I can give you every moment of my time til then, but I just remembered my friends are getting married and I'm supposed to perform there"
or 2) break it to your friends via a message board that you're no longer coming, because death has penciled you in on their calendar, no, not unexpectedly tomorrow, but 57 days from now.
And we all know, you can't question death.
So, you choose who to disappoint. Getting chosen is always fun. Except when it's not.
and why are you so mad? Why?
Because people are uniformly just excused from their shitty, lame and disappointing behaviour. And when you don't listen to me, then pretend that none of this is worth analyzing in the least, like it's biblical (which is not worth analyzing, because it's fiction... which just proves my point)... so I should just shut up, pretend to understand and put lipstick on my pretty mouth. Watch another Skye Ferreira video.
And you don't listen, but implicate me in the discomfort. As it's cause. Like I killed this person. When all I'm asking is for some ... too. Life and death are in the balance together, inextricable, but two to one, you know where the vote is cast.
"Where your priorities are"
so you girls who don't question their parents, except for pretend when you grow up, pretend that I'm a monster,
without a heart. and make me feel insane.
And call me a hot heat, twice in one day. Brilliant for someone whose grammar I try not to put under the microscope.
But unlike a scientist, you don't examine the cause as part of your hypothesis. It's enough to make anyone blow their lid, when someone looks at you like you don't make sense, when you do.
and says that you have strong opinions, but try to shame you out of yours.
say's it's uncomfortable to see anger,
but squash it until all it can do is seep out.
Then you try to force a resolution, so that you, two against one,
can make yourselves feel better in your judgement.
and that forcing, for your own sake, just makes me seethe more.
And recall all the other times I've been made out, hung out and left to find my own legs,
because emotions are so inconvenient.
unless they're yours.
You are allowed to be unreasonable,
and bratty and all the flattering, rosy-hued adjectives you'll deign to let yourself be called when you're being impossible.
Mine, no... let's clean those up.
It makes me want to puke. And the pot you want a lid on, hits boil.
... when all I want to do is go screaming into the night, or anywhere else where people aren't repressed robots without feelings who hide behind fake, mother-board feelings like... when it's death it's beyond analysis.
no one likes being chosen last. especially not three times.s
and no one likes being told, like an all too fresh last time...
that their feelings are embarrassing.
you're right. It must be really uncomfortable to feel and watch real emotions that don't exist in movies with wakes...
and having a witness, who you have to protect from your disappointment in me, is far easier than dealing with my disappointment in being
actually more intellectually disappointed than emotionally.
cause the last things I want to feel are a fool, and an embarrassment.
looks like I'm 2 for 0.
