inspired by the worst of them all

it's interesting, perhaps
that the one most reviled is the one doing the most
most good most bad most everything
it's hard to say

i would like to be one of those
set afire
buring with my passion

instead i'm one of those other ones
who puts one foot in front of the other and has a hard enough time managing that much.
stupid and thick and dull

i want my cheekbones to elicit sighs
i want my eyes to spark  smiles
i want my voices to trigger that sudden hush as a million voices hold their breath and lean forward
the better to hear
i want gloss and glam and bright lights

and at the end of the day, i want to take it all off and fold it up and put it away until the next time electricity holds me hostage
and exhaustion is temorarily at bay.

i've never stayed up as late as this

i love being right
except when it meas that my friends don't talk to me anymore because i made it (for values of) and they haven't yet.

thoughts across my page

i'm difficult to please
but this is difficult weather

where do you go, my lovely, oh where do you go?

sometimes i wonder about where it comes from
what it does
how it works
that little misstep that throws everything off on the inside of my head
topsy turvey
like through a cheap carnival mirror
nothing the way it's supposed to be
how does it do that?

i can feel myself sinking, a bit
i haven't had a good nights sleep since i got back from field work
at any point in the day, i catch myself with my teeth clenched tight
and i wake up more tired than i went to sleep
there is a persistent and unquenchable drip down the back of my throat, has been for weeks.
i've been dreaming almost nonstop when i close my eyes, and i never remember it. (thank fucking god. i've had enough years of screaming nightmares and my mothers severed head in a doll bed from preschool.)

except this one where i was in some sort of travel station, a la an airport, but for trains, but not quite a train station somehow. who knows. but there were two people, a boy and a girl, and he was expertly french braiding her hair. they were best friends who were not afraid to be physically, intimate, i think. i don't know what the rest of the dream was about. i still don't remember most of them.

i've been practicing my breathing, when i remember.
but it's hard to remember that, on top of everything else.

i've though in the abstract about what i would do if i can't do this
and i've said that it would be okay if i didn't
but i really did lie
it wouldn't be okay
and i'm less than sure than ever that i can do this.

i was riding high, and it just all seems to be crumbling from beneath me (from beneath you it devours) a slip here, a falling pebble there, a wisp of dust and then it's down and over the cliff for me.

unrelated to my excellent emoness, despite the distinct blindness from a lack of eye-enhancement, i find that i am nonetheless an excellent typist. at least near as i can tell what with being blind and all. maybe this is all completely illegible and i'll find out in the morning.