yesnothankyou

I was telling you about how I don't know how to leave certain stories alone and you said it's because I spent decades becoming friends with all the damage. You're right. I hold them harder, make me luminous. Overly sentimental but what the hell? My chest is just a crushing flower, I don’t stop making room for it. I mean, tried to make it better once now I'm all branded by what I owed for them. I mean, I shut my eyes and it’s all palatial, all bottle green light, tempered glitz, furious. It's not so hard to get too close. It was always harder to not say anything at all. I used to wrestle with whether reassembling it was a better service to the truth or just another way of eluding it and I still can’t determine which it is. oh, I am still my own clumsy problem. I’m still all dumbstruck about light, my beautiful friends, the things I’ve been. I love my own loneliness, what else is new? You blow smoke almost patiently and tell me you would like to jump into a swimming pool with all of our clothes on and maybe this would feel like a relief. My mortal grief coils unsuspecting, I am a hopeless thing and you outnumber me. I don’t know how to be afraid of my own memories but I know I’m supposed to. Still I drag my knuckles along all the sharp parts, I’ve got blood on my hands and you’re asking me to show you so I keep showing you. I split open because it feels good to be known. I know. My mumbling mouth saying please don’t close this door please don’t close this door please