A Rush of Words On Stilled Lips

they’ll never hurt you like i do.

I just feel like I am full of these wishes and all words do is ripple across the page. I feel so frustrated, like words are never enough, not even gestures. I feel like there should be a word for how completely angry and hopeless I feel, like things will come crashing down right on my face any minute. Maybe they will, maybe all that there will be left of me is a presence lighter than air, haven’t I always been lighter than air? I could float up to the ceiling with any feeling too intense for my small frame to handle.
Maybe that’s why I crave steady hands so much. Dustin has been instrumental to keeping my feet planted firmly on the ground, even when those blue eyes are always pleading and leaking and I just want to stuff my fist in my mouth and forget anyone ever said anything to me, ever. It’s petulant, I’m always petulant, a kitten who thinks she’s as ferocious as a tiger. What if I’m not ferocious enough, what if I never truly will fight my own battles?
It’s hard to be crushed under the weight of your own expectations and feelings, your eyes darting in every which direction, your tongue wetting your lips. And people enjoy this sick, twisted falling I experience, the kind of falling where all your bones are jarred into the soft tissue of your organs, but nothing makes a palpable crunch so no one really bothers to care. Yet people are interested in me, and what else can I do but let the hysteric laughter bubble up, like bubbles in a glass of soda?
People are sick, sick. Someone as fragile as I, seen as the most durable weapon in the sexual arsenal. I am not a weapon – I am too pliable to be of any use to you. My skin is always full of goosebumps and my eyes always full of questions, my fingernails tucked into my palms to hide how ugly they are, sure signs of my distress. I am distressed, dismayed, because you create in your imagination something so blissful, beautiful, and I see nothing but cracks and fissures that I must hold together, like two pieces of fabric, or else all my insides will spill out onto the pavement with a sickening, wet sound.
Maybe I’m the sick one.
When I sleep, I feel beautiful. My eyelashes are splayed onto my cheeks, my lips full from too many words, my face seamless. Until the dreams start, because they mock me, I always wake up feeling the same…angry, hopeless, bitter, strangely content. I am a swirl of feelings and my dreams do nothing to alleviate that; it’s like they play back to me, only to mock me, only to disgust me even more.
I feel like there should be a pink sky that rubs against my bare shoulders, because I always did like those off-the-shoulder clothes. If my shoulders are free, I feel free. I want longer hair, so much longer so I can hide inside it. And I want bare feet, I want sand, I want grass.

And here i thought I was making some kind of progress.
Maybe I am in my own way.
Feeling sort of rejuvenated.

But, onward with the march.

Love.