incapable

goobercellphonecherrylunchtable

macbethdesamismedievalelectrontoolkit

laundrydusttrashclutter

zitsrazorsbracesnails

she’s losing the ability to do anything, much less speak english. all the above situations appear to be impossible.

my pile o’ stuff is now a hobo

dear world,

please give me my chair back!
thanks in advance. i’m trusting in you, world (why, i have no idea…)

sincerely,
me.

What else should I say?

I’M SORRY

I’M ANGRY

I’M (still) AFRAID

Trying to breathe only results in my stomach trembling, an audible shakiness when I inhale or exhale. The tremors spread to my legs and hands. I am a human earthquake when I don’t know how to feel or think or explain or write.

I can’t “disregard” you and I can’t let you think I mean to do anything to “amaze” you or be deserving of your “thank you.” And I absolutely cannot let you believe I want you to stop writing “sadangry logic-making nonsense words.” My being a mess that tries to be stable certainly should not affect your ability to be a mess that has few pretensions of stability.

I continue to quiver while attempting to formulate sentences that explain that you make me incredibly angry, incredibly scared, incredibly guilty, and other times incredibly happy. What’s important though is that you make me feel more than anyone else around me right now, because they all seem to be made out of some sort of living plastic that’s capable of work, stress-tears, and laughter, the kind of ever-present default laughter that’s the mark of boring outer happiness around the world.  So I need to keep you around, Cherry Bitch, because the bad times can be prevalent and still somehow seem not to last long, and the good times are so good, and all the times are alive in a way that’s rare.

I can’t seem to communicate that properly, ever. I don’t think I have yet. I still feel like I’m messing something up for you, there’s something I should be doing. There’s knowledge I don’t have and good things I can’t do and if you want to know the truth part of my reason for sticking around is pure curiosity. You’re interesting and you make me think and you occupy my mind. It sounds terrible as an explanation for constancy. All my explanations for how I behave are terrible or nonexistent. The actions that cause pain in particular are unexplainable. I don’t know what I’m saying anymore, except that I feel guilty and sorry, very sorry.

I am all apologies.

a parasite bent on devouring its host

Cherry’s writing continues to appear woeful. I worry about her. I worry about her being broken, or worse- disintegrating into microscopic bits, dust on the wind, a gone girl. My useless empathy makes me ache with every described and demonstrated pain. It just adds to my worry overload, but if I tell her that she’ll tell me not to worry about her, or something like it. She should know by now that I simply worry too much. I worry and I fear.

I worry about her. I worry about the goober-girl, and her happiness (forget my own). I worry about my cell phone slut, and what she will do next. I worry about what she thinks of me and if she will ever let me help her or love her. I worry about what the closet christian says. I worry every time the genius girl walks away angry, and those moments are becoming more and more frequent. I worry about my mother, and whether she is healthy, sane, not crying herself to sleep. I’ve heard her and it makes me want to cry but I never can.

My worries are hurting me, destroying me, or trying to. Acidic fear eats away at my mind at every idle moment. There seems to be no escape and no release – they are far too illogical to be explained. People might worry about me! And that doesn’t make sense. Then I realize I am spiraling away from reality again and rein myself back in. I have to search for myself among my concerns for others. All I want is to stop worrying, to throw tums at my life until it calms down and evens out. But these people need to be worried about by someone and I see only me. If they would let me in, talk and think and breathe and be in my presence, hold my hand and let me know they can live, I might be able to believe. But that doesn’t happen.

So I worry and fear and try desperately to show how much I love them, how their pain makes me ache, their sicknesses make me nauseated. All these problems that aren’t mine diffuse into me. I want to love them away but I don’t know how. I just don’t know.

over and out

That is how my awkward father ends phone messages: “And this is Kevin. Over and out, bye.” That is how an awkward (but in a very different way) girl ended one more thing that makes me worry. Over and out. Endings. I think I will have to stop reading soon, because the endings are proving too much for me.

Her apathy and the fact that it’s not apathy at all, really, is overpowering. Her attitude towards that crazy hen makes me wonder, wonder about what people say about her, and if she’ll spit me out, too, give up at some point when all her chewing doesn’t change some intrinsically annoying property. But that’s not really what I worry about, not a deliberate removal.

If cherry chooses to change the way things are in hopes of being made better…that sentence does not have an end. It’s an if-then statement, but I don’t know the “then” part. Only a foreboding feeling exists. Something about her going away to some hospital-place scares me. She’ll come back different, or on her way to being different, and I’ll just be here. And I’ll just be me, still broken and the same in all my little ways, but more alone. And that’s terrifying. So is the thought that acceptance of problems and taking the right pills on purpose means she’s growing up. She might be speeding away from something I understand, down a dirt road into mystery, and I think I will soon choke on enormous quantities of dust. But I can’t begrudge her something that everyone but me would say is right. My hands are still allowed to tremble and I am allowed my illogical, insane ramblings of fear.

it’s love that breaks the seal of always thinking you would be real.

My lips and arms and body all yearn to be wrapped around someone else’s. But it’s cold and dead outside now, and I’m only entangled with affection when it’s warm. Summer needs to come faster; sitting here at the halfway point is painful. I can’t wait for the smothering, oppressive heat and 16 hours of sunlight. But even then I worry about finding anyone who wants me at all. “You think you know your possibilities / then other people come into your life / and suddenly there are so many more.” What if there are no new people, and my life is as concrete as it feels? It’s drying all around me and I am stuck in it. I want to be released to wander the world so my heart and hands can find somebody. I am certain I can’t. I am so terribly, terribly afraid of staying alone.