in too many different ways it is happening.
they all surround me tightly with certain, long-limbed steps and within a few moments my aura is touching every one of them. tightly packed in the middle of their volition, being passively pushed towards the centre of me. being passively pushed towards the centre of you.
i miss.
i miss like i'm innocent. i miss like i'm a victim. i miss like your face is visually more important to me than the light.
i miss helpless and pathetic. restless and dramatic. in chronic pain.
i don't know. i just don't know what to do to erase your ghost shadow from my awareness. i don't know what to do to want to erase your ghost shadow from my awareness. i don't know why i have to be so strict and self-loathing, to remove you. i don't understand why you'd choose this for me. and i still believe what i felt. i can't dispute this for convenience. i can't blindfoldedly deny the existence of a wall i'm repeatedly walking into on the claim of having no visual skills. i can't allow you to fuck up. nobody fucks up. not when they are remembered. not when they are ghosts.
and when i have sort of succeeded in pretending you have never existed, i naughtily prompt recall by paying attention to the black cardboard cut out in the centre of my eyes. i ride the wave of euphoria your existence provides. i ride it down to the industrial landfill landscape it expresses on. i drink from it what looks like an oil leak with bubbles of foam firmly stuck to its surface. it makes the tube in my neck close up. it makes me cough without coughing.
it's all closing in on me. and of course i'm in the middle. a multitude of arrows pointing towards me and a multitude of directions i wish i could move towards. a multitude of reasons not to do it. a multitude of ways i cannot do it.
they all surround me tightly with certain, long-limbed steps and within a few moments my aura is touching every one of them. tightly packed in the middle of their volition, being passively pushed towards the centre of me. being passively pushed towards the centre of you.
i miss.
i miss like i'm innocent. i miss like i'm a victim. i miss like your face is visually more important to me than the light.
i miss helpless and pathetic. restless and dramatic. in chronic pain.
i don't know. i just don't know what to do to erase your ghost shadow from my awareness. i don't know what to do to want to erase your ghost shadow from my awareness. i don't know why i have to be so strict and self-loathing, to remove you. i don't understand why you'd choose this for me. and i still believe what i felt. i can't dispute this for convenience. i can't blindfoldedly deny the existence of a wall i'm repeatedly walking into on the claim of having no visual skills. i can't allow you to fuck up. nobody fucks up. not when they are remembered. not when they are ghosts.
and when i have sort of succeeded in pretending you have never existed, i naughtily prompt recall by paying attention to the black cardboard cut out in the centre of my eyes. i ride the wave of euphoria your existence provides. i ride it down to the industrial landfill landscape it expresses on. i drink from it what looks like an oil leak with bubbles of foam firmly stuck to its surface. it makes the tube in my neck close up. it makes me cough without coughing.
it's all closing in on me. and of course i'm in the middle. a multitude of arrows pointing towards me and a multitude of directions i wish i could move towards. a multitude of reasons not to do it. a multitude of ways i cannot do it.
