The mosquito on my shoulder stings like a stranger. I jump up, the pain like a yelp, no words in my mouth. Every day and every moment find me here: in the past, gagaing the world like a misty dream. No more lies and no more secrets. I want(more) to be honest, I want to be human, I want to exist in a place beyond this.
The words I write lately never seem to work. I need to push them out...whir my thoughts into an ugly collage and then allow that collage to control me. It's as if every feeling inside me bent itself into something strange. My heart and my mind separate into two oceans, a montage of hurt, a lifeline of age.
No, today I speak in riddles but riddles that form something whole. Regardless of the ugly, I know I need to write. WRITE! That's what I tell myself day after day, word after word. As if nothing exists beyond this. As if love is only the word that pulses in my soul beyond the pain.
So today I will write and my words will be ugly. Words are mosquitos touching every last corner. Words will be imperfect and they will ruin thing and I will allow them but life is more then this.
The current in my mind leaps rapidly forward. Too many thoughts, too many words. It is buried in my heart and wild like a lemon tree. Regardless, I know that things lie ahead that I could never imagine.
I know in my future I see love and emotion, I see hands curling into mine and the cosmos sinking into my soul, splaying out into the dark blue. All that exists and all that I need is my heart on my fucking sleeve tonight. (less)