Maladjusted and under the moon
Today was really heavy, forget it. I hardly even remember yesterday. I can’t write sincerely anymore, to hell with it. To hell with gravity and weight and the things that make Wednesdays feel so stagnant. It’s been a few months under the moonlight. We’re both pale and glowing all of the time. I’ve tried my damnedest to fight the sun, I just can’t let you see me, not yet if ever. It’s just safer here in the dark. I can be who I want but instead I just keep pushing the idea to you that it’s something wild and refreshing. I couldn’t ever say this, even if I wanted to, but now it’s fighting my skin like disease. You’ve strung words out of you like paper planes I can’t catch. Sometimes they’re elegant and soar around me for days. But there are still some that crash at my feet. These are the things I day dream about, like you would ever wonder. I fill your head with all of my outer layers. I know how to enchant, how to kiss, what to tell you to make myself seem more interesting. I’m just not. I’m plain. I don’t even look good naked, I just know what to do. These things aren’t meant to seem provocative, I’m almost saddened by them. I deprive you of whatever I am and let you hold onto the loose ends that you know. I’m insecure and afraid because I’m damaged goods, still not by choice. I get so dizzy when I think about the lines in your face, I don’t deserve them. I keep breaking my legs over and over jumping around in wrong attempts to get you to see me. I know you do, just not in the same light. You can understand my face in the sunlight even when you’ve only seen it here under the same damned moon I’ve been howling at since the start. It’s so clear I should face the morning instead of sitting here,writing myself out of bitter moods, cursing my own being. I should quit and enjoy this life and these things while they’re all still sticky and new enough to let them leave impressions on me (and vice versa). I just can’t get comfortable enough to let them creep onto me. I’ll always have my head cocked and my mouth loaded with fresh remarks to spit. I’ll always scoff at the people who embrace the beauty left on this planet. I am unable. I’m too maladjusted to just be still and love something because it wants me to or because it’s pretty or ugly or anything. I’m not an empty vessel, just a faulty one. I’m cracked and worn but you stop the leaks. I’m learning to carry things again. Each day the weight is more bearable and tomorrow I will see the sun.
