Just not today
I have writer's block, and it's all your fault.
Yeah, I know, it can't be your fault when you haven't even spoken a word to me in nearly eighteen months and you don't even know where I am or what the hell I am doing. Actually you know exactly where I am, I never go anywhere. It's me that doesn't know where you are or what the hell you are doing. I can guess, imagine, (fantasize! Bwah!) but I am not allowed to know. Technically I am not allowed to wonder. Anyway, none of that is here nor there, or relevant. My pysche or muse just doesn't seem to want to let me write anything until I come here to do a little purging. It's pushing me here---like Modell! HA! Oh how I wish I could just be Linda Bowman again.
Gee, that sucks. I get to purge but never got to binge first. What the hell fun is that?
Yes, so you have been creeping around my mind again. I felt like I was shrugging you off for a while, I even survived the b-day, albeit barely. Something happened a week or so ago---I don't even know what it was now, but it hit me like a brick. It was like that song by the Indigo Girls: "you rush right through me 'til I start to drown..." Since then I've been trying to shove you back down under the bed, into the trunk, where I don't think about you... It isn't working.
Then it was the Whitman. I listened to a program on him. It was so thrilling and inspiring, and I wanted to talk about it with someone, anyone who would get it or at least want to try to. Sadly there is no one where I am like that. I even tried. It made me so sad.
It was then I began to cry again. I have no control over it sometimes. I just try to do it in secret---silently so no one catches me. When I think about what I'll never have again. No one will ever see me the way you did
or listen to me
hear me
respect me
want me
and I don't mean sexually you pain in the ass. (ok maybe sometimes it meant that)
I know it isn't pretty, and it's demeaning and counterproductive, but there are moments---ones like those that I just can't help it. I would give anything to be able to talk to you again, to be your friend. Having you in my life was just a joy and a gift. Then I watch a stupid television show, and see McDreamy say, "Oh I walk the dog every morning at 'such and such a place', meet me for coffee we'll be just friends" and I want to throw things at the TV because he is an asshole and knows better and so does she.
You can't be my friend.
I thought at least you'd note the date. It hurt so bad that you didn't even come look, or peek in on me, maybe even send a innocuously veiled wish through an acquaintanceance.
You probably don't even think of me anymore.
Not a day goes by that I don't think of you.
I wont give up. If anything just to prove something to someone. I am strong, and special, and I really do believe in myself. Most days. Just not today.
Yeah, I know, it can't be your fault when you haven't even spoken a word to me in nearly eighteen months and you don't even know where I am or what the hell I am doing. Actually you know exactly where I am, I never go anywhere. It's me that doesn't know where you are or what the hell you are doing. I can guess, imagine, (fantasize! Bwah!) but I am not allowed to know. Technically I am not allowed to wonder. Anyway, none of that is here nor there, or relevant. My pysche or muse just doesn't seem to want to let me write anything until I come here to do a little purging. It's pushing me here---like Modell! HA! Oh how I wish I could just be Linda Bowman again.
Gee, that sucks. I get to purge but never got to binge first. What the hell fun is that?
Yes, so you have been creeping around my mind again. I felt like I was shrugging you off for a while, I even survived the b-day, albeit barely. Something happened a week or so ago---I don't even know what it was now, but it hit me like a brick. It was like that song by the Indigo Girls: "you rush right through me 'til I start to drown..." Since then I've been trying to shove you back down under the bed, into the trunk, where I don't think about you... It isn't working.
Then it was the Whitman. I listened to a program on him. It was so thrilling and inspiring, and I wanted to talk about it with someone, anyone who would get it or at least want to try to. Sadly there is no one where I am like that. I even tried. It made me so sad.
It was then I began to cry again. I have no control over it sometimes. I just try to do it in secret---silently so no one catches me. When I think about what I'll never have again. No one will ever see me the way you did
or listen to me
hear me
respect me
want me
and I don't mean sexually you pain in the ass. (ok maybe sometimes it meant that)
I know it isn't pretty, and it's demeaning and counterproductive, but there are moments---ones like those that I just can't help it. I would give anything to be able to talk to you again, to be your friend. Having you in my life was just a joy and a gift. Then I watch a stupid television show, and see McDreamy say, "Oh I walk the dog every morning at 'such and such a place', meet me for coffee we'll be just friends" and I want to throw things at the TV because he is an asshole and knows better and so does she.
You can't be my friend.
I thought at least you'd note the date. It hurt so bad that you didn't even come look, or peek in on me, maybe even send a innocuously veiled wish through an acquaintanceance.
You probably don't even think of me anymore.
Not a day goes by that I don't think of you.
I wont give up. If anything just to prove something to someone. I am strong, and special, and I really do believe in myself. Most days. Just not today.
posted by Sabine at 8:12 PM
0 Comments:
Post a Comment
<< Home