The more days that pass it’s me that ages.
I stuff myself in holes of immaturity and self doubt, buying my way into the fancies of life.
When will it get old?
Maybe in due time—maybe never.
I don’t mind the fits of sadness and despair—craving, desire, and moments of love.
Sometimes I want out–no, not sometimes. Almost always.
But still I’m held back.
I’m not interested in taking the easy way out and to be honest I’m not that interested in any of it at all—-
I wonder where the border is between depression and delusion. Reality and illusion.
Maybe that’s why they call it Borderline Personality Disorder.
Who would have thought?
Treading cold ice snow; eating it, throwing it, sharing it, pissing all over it.
It’s dead cold ice and it’s a matter of what you do with it that makes the person.
I wonder what’s written about me.
Lock me up
throw me away
I don’t mind.
Bury me deeper in my sins and maybe I’ll learn a lesson or two.
Any ounce of real and I’m swooning at the feet of those who feed it to me.
Love, love, love, hate.
I want nothing more than words of the broken hearted spilled down my throat by the force of Your hand.
Tell me nothing more than what’s in your heart or I’ll see right through. False rumors of traits and games given to my ear like I’m worth nothing more than lies.
And maybe I am.
At least make it a bit less obvious.
You can’t relate to me so don’t try and I promise I’ll do the same.
But for those who know
and who feel
what I feel;
I see you.
We don’t have to talk
or exchange glances
or listen to each others sounds.
But know somewhere deep down
in the holes I’ve dug myself in
there’s someone crying too.
And it’s not always happy
and it’s not always sad.
But rivers of existence are shed in underground tunnels
awaiting those who find themselves lost at sea on handwoven boats.
I’ll be here
waiting
for anything
but a miracle.
-Natalia