I come here to write. I come here like a sinner to confess to his priest. I come here night, after night, after night; and the absolution never comes close to forgiving myself.
There's no respect in just doing whatever you can to make something go away. That doesn't make it right, correct, excusable. It makes it dirty.
And it's wrong of me to love it better than being clean. But I am an old soul with an entitlement to being mean.
I listen to the same voices over and over in my head. I want them to keep me in the moment. Hit repeat until time is bleeding at my mercy, as if the click of a button keeps it at bay. Though there's nothing special about the place I'm in, maybe I can hold it off until I give a damn again.
Here I am with my map in hand. I marked out my journey. Yet, I'm left wondering, for who?
I like my distance, won't you come closer?
Why do I tolerate your less-than-adequate conversational skills when I'd sooner bury someone else than put up with them? Why do I taunt one but am intrigued by the other? I guess it's just as simple as being able to see intentions so clearly. And let me tell you, your intentions are the knife to our severed relationship.
It is not easy to be me
while having to be
so close to you.
Won't you come closer,
so you can see
what it's like for me?