Month: August 2016

Everything I write for you turns to shit.

I know what to say but I don’t know how to say it. Does it scare you? How many words were meant for you but never said to you?

And it’s not hard. Not all words are meant to be pretty. Yet we never cease our pacing. This pacing behind a mental wall. This wall, shimmering in the light so slightly. This wall of dust and air. This wall that is not there.

I’m sitting alone with an elbow propped against the table and my head in my hand, writing this instead of writing what needs to be written and it is so loud. I am in a library and it is so loud.

I was in such a hurry to leave I forgot my glasses so my eyes are stinging and my coffee is slowly cooling in my mug back home and my handwriting is so shaky. So shaky.

And the man beside me is wiping down the table with some kind of cloth and he’s wiping and wiping and I never knew cloth could be so loud and I want to ask if they’re paying him, if he’s the fucking Table Wiper of this library because if he is then God bless your services sir will you wipe my table next?

I know I’m pacing again I’m always pacing

He’s wiping every corner like he’s wiping fingerprints from a crime scene but the only crime I can see hear is this noise he’s making in what’s supposed to be a QUIET SPACE and why the HELL is there a baby crying? What’s a baby doing in the library BABIES CAN’T EVEN READ.

Sitting there in the backseat of the car I had a whole goddamn speech prepared for you and now all I have left is sorry.

Sorry: the only word that ever makes it to the other side of the wall with me. Sorry.

Except I don’t know if I’m sorry for me or for you or for all the pacing we do all the fucking pacing.

And if the Table Wiper isn’t sorry for wiping then the Writer isn’t sorry for swearing.


ToO Much !


I think I put off getting my driver’s licence because I don’t trust myself. I’m scared I’ll get bad one night and take my parents’ car and drive until my vision is too blurry for me to see the road. I would do something stupid like that. I mean, I got good, but sometimes my ration still has trouble swallowing my intrusive thoughts.

I got good, but I still run to the washroom at work whenever I can to bury my face in my hands. The world is still too much.

And when they talk to me I can feel my eyes drift away and I tell myself to stop, but I can’t. I can’t. They think I’m weird because I never speak and I don’t have the strength to prove them wrong.

It’s just that I don’t want to hear where you went Friday night and how drunk you got and who cheated on who and who wore what so please just let my mind drift won’t you please just let my mind drift.

I love taking the train because I can stare at the trees for hours listening to calm music no one wants to hear played at parties and no one will try to speak to me because I’m in the Quiet Zone and I can breathe.

I can breathe.

God it gets so hard to breathe.

I don’t want my driver’s license because there are always too many cars on the road and it freaks me out. And all those people in those cars and all their stories and all their dreams and all the things that make them cry like I cry. It’s too much.

Sometimes I think I’m too soft for this world. I listen to slow songs and live for quiet rainy days and tear up when the sun shines through the leaves and I love.

I love

And it kills me.

And I believe everything you say so please don’t trick me.

It’s so hard being strong.

Lost Again

There is a blankness within me. A flat plain of subtraction.

I stumble through a forest where the trees are upside down.

The open wound of memory, I do not want your pain.

But I am sponge. I am vacuum.

I am the mouth of an infinite cave.

I will hold your hand until my heart breaks.