via lucia - psychosis

i hate your smell because i love it.
i tried last night to envision some other body in my bed
like a child from the clouds
or a man from my past
but none of them could keep me safe the way you do
and none of them could inspire in me this type of affection.
and now, i feel like the face bilbo baggins makes
when he sees the thing he for so many years called his precious
and knows that it has aged him and made him vulnerable,
desperate.
i want to let go of all the pain that is aging me and nauseating me,
so that i can love you like you deserve.
more than that, i want to feel the wholeness i once took for granted
because i value it so much now that it is gone.
and if my body can, for just a few minutes, feel healthy again,
maybe i will breathe fresh air
and forget that i feel like i'm dying.
and if that doesn't work, then maybe i will bleed fresh blood
and feel alive again.

via lucia - falling

thinking about you gives me a fucking headache. sometimes i want to die just so that i can stop thinking. i feel sometimes like this is a sick obsession just like every other thing i thought was love.

i want to fall out of love.

i don't want to be trapped by anything or anyone. i used to love feeling weak for love. i used to think that having the ability to love was a strength. and now i've grown up and realized that all those people for whom i felt sorry were people i should have admired. because they had the strength to ignore love. they had the strength to get over it.

when i have children, will they hurt me the way you do? will i feel forever helpless, like a toy whose batteries no longer run? and will this wound ever turn into a scar that i can remember fondly?

i want to fall out of love. love is a disease, a fucking headache. love is a miscarriage and my womb is breaking.

Via Matilda

Sometimes I'll look at you and think the world has come to a shattering halt.

Newsflash: World stopped dead on its axis.

I want to try you, explore you, take you for a lethal test drive. We might never come back.I'm tired of wandering eyes travelling the distance across the room, or at the bar, or the clubs we frequent. Of fumbling hands tracing patterns on the decorative throws that cover up the tattered sofa patches in our friends' apartments, reaching out for each other and then retracting.

Breathe in, exhale slowly, and realize we could never be together. The password is "almost".

Again and again, I see you coming and going. I always trick myself into thinking the night is long enough for me to change my mind, for you to change it for me.

Take the remote, take the reigns, take me on the goddamn floor.

I buy us time inside my mind, I buy myself a ticket for one to a place where I don't care anymore.I stir in my place, stir in my drink, and can't let go. I search for a corner of the room to stare at, a checkered tablecloth, a chipped tile, anything to occupy my eyes but yours.

I want it so much it makes my muscles contract. I am rendered unable to speak every time you float by, ready for me to catch you but I won't. It's just a thought.

You are the sum of everything I never understood. An idea woven of dreams so thin they are transparent.It's just a thought.

You are the pale webs I see when I'm tripping. You are a ruler smacking my knuckles for being such a cold mess. I make it a goal to become an addict of emotion, but I'm always too smart. You are the one I talk to in LSD dreams, when you're waiting for me to come around.

You're just a thought.

An idea with blue eyes like automatic weapons.

This battlefield is intense, and I'm waiting for someone to take mercy on me and shoot already. The tension grows into a deafening sound, rich with disappointment. Paralysis strikes, and in the silence you can hear atoms splitting.

I want to wrap you up and take you home, but I could never.I want to ignore the symbols of justice, the codes of morality, the advice of my friends, the word of God, the face of she, the thought of tomorrow.

Fuck tomorrow.
Tomorrow has been cancelled, due to lack of promise.

I want to put everything on "mute", maybe even you, and get tangled up in the worst nightmare of my life.Your curse is your blessing, and your blessing is your curse.And I should simply know better.

via lucia - the diner

nirya was sitting across from him in a minibooth at a diner. the lights were hospital exam-room bright and she could see every flaw in the room: the table was greasy from someone else's fries; her fork and knife had dried food on them from prior meals; her glass was chipped and stained; and owen, the chump sitting across from her who called himself a man, had a piece of spinach in his teeth. regardless, he still looked fine. heatlhy. sexy. maybe even reliable. she looked at him as he played with his napkin. was he someone she could keep around?

when the waitress blankly shoved their food on the table, nirya winced. her turkey looked old and limp and the gravy was powder-chunky as if not well-stirred. she thought about returning it to ask for something else, but when she looked at owen's dishevelled chicken cheesesteak, she decided to just stick with what she'd ordered. she watched owen shovel the food in his mouth and asked, "are we in a rush?"

"no," he responded, as a piece of chicken fell out of his mouth, "why?"

"no reason." she lied; she didn't want to seem picky about his eating habits, especially when hers were so far from perfect. feeling half drunk, she looked away from her plate at all the imperfections in the room. she could almost sense the room, it's light fixtures and ugly retro curtains, reaching out to her and attempting to speak. she stared at the salt and pepper shakers -- were they trying to say something? she shook her head and turned back to her food. after she ate, she would feel less drunk.

nirya wiped her silverware with a napkin, thinking there was probably no use in asking the waitress for another pair. she began to cut her turkey in small even pieces. after each cut, she would spread some mashed potatoes and chunky gravy on top and gently slide the bite into her mouth, taking her time to appreciate it. granted, this was not the type of food that one could truly enjoy, but she did her best. nirya was simple; she didn't have a very exciting life, but she tried, at least, to make it so it didn't hurt.

owen, on the other hand, was crude. he ate food off of the table and drank and ate at the same time, as if there were some unspoken time limit. in life, he never tried to feel anything and never had to worry about hurting. instead, he just hurt others. he was constantly starting fights with strangers; he always felt like he deserved special treatment; he never paid his bills on time. nirya put all this aside because she liked the way he spoke to her. she liked that even through his roughness, she could still sense that he wanted to make her happy, in whatever way he knew how. parts of her thought she could do better, but maybe she was just too lazy, too lacking in self-confidence to try.

he'd already finished his meal. she was barely half done. he called the waitress over and asked for a slice of pecan pie with a scoop of ice cream and some caramel topping. nirya could see the sky getting light outside. she hated the thought that life was starting all over again. soon, people would be out on the streets, walking to their jobs in their freshy ironed outfits with their just-combed hair. she wanted to love life, but people angered her. they were so plain, so redundant. maybe she was too.

owen stared at her as he ate his pie. he asked, "so what do you wana do after?"

"after what?" she responded.

"you know, after this?" it was obvious that he wanted to fuck and she couldn't blame him. they'd known each other for weeks and everytime they hung out, they kissed a few times, but stopped there. she felt like he might be losing interest, but maybe he was just patient. she wanted sex too.

"i'm not picky," she said. she couldn't figure out why she wanted to fuck him. was it because she wanted to feel wanted? or because she wanted to feel meaningless? he got up and went to the front register to pay the bill. in that late night/early morning haze, she could feel everything around her singing. all the lights, the tables, the ugly curtains, even the dirty silverware were singing, "he ain't worth it."

soon, the singing became all that she could hear.

he ain't worth it, he ain't worth it, he ain't worth it.

he came back to the booth and reached out for her hand. she held his hand and got out of the booth. as they walked out of the diner, she could hear street signs telling her owen wasn't worth it, but she went with him anyway.