When you feel like a dickhead, but damn. Somebody’s gotta be. News flash. It ain’t a you and him issue once you tell me it affects your ability to maintain the home WE live in. Then it’s a me, you, and him issue. You say you’re just gonna do what everybody else wants you to do? Well shit, far as I know everybody else just wants to not get evicted. If that ain’t something you want, then go ahead.
I’m sorry, because I love you and I love our home. I’m sorry that I’m just trying not to get fucking evicted. I paid my shit. I’ll pay your shit. But damn. I’ll get upset about it if I want to if you ain’t tryna fix it.
My friend offered me this advice today: “If you can’t get over someone, get under someone!”
Um, I don’t think thats the best plan of action but thanks.
You used to stand in awe of God,
now you question everything
you were ever taught he should mean to you.
You question yourself in a reflection that I
could never rehang on your bathroom door
or reassure with my emptiness
burning cigarette holes into your shaking hands.
I couldn’t bring myself to help
the newfound shortness of your breath.
I wanted you too badly, kept you too broken
by the slamming of a door you never had the strength to open.
use this like my first Tumblr. I thought I could avoid the day that I bled for 27 strangers like I used to for 2,000. I made this new one because my boyfriend was all over the old one, the old “me” and I thought I could bury her with the deletion of that blog. I don’t reblog things. I don’t write anything personal for this new blog, this conditional commitment that I use to browse through everyone else’s lives so I can avoid my own. Just like things, I said. Don’t reblog much, don’t post anything about yourself directly. But I can’t help it. Tonight I can feel myself letting go of him and it’s as much pain as it’s relief. I can’t just start over anymore. I am nothing of who I ever wanted to be and I am everything I tell myself I “used” to be. I hurt. I smoke too much, I sleep around and I don’t move forward anymore. And I don’t know why I want to confess this to 27 strangers. But I can’t not. So there’s a little piece of the cliche I live, on my own conditions and without any kind of commitment.