How smudged graphite can cause a myriad of thoughts

Consciousness grips me all at once and I gasp just as a small spider crawls its way across my pillow toward me in some sort of five p.m., I’m-a-man-with-a-briefcase type hurry. Cinematographically it was brilliant, realistically it urged me to shift from a horizontal to a vertical position, circumstance, simulation.

My head spun,

like silk wound tediously into web formation, hopelessly careful; no gratitude. I’m still weaving, my fingers are twisted in all sorts of ways.

Dazed, naked and stomach aching, I turn to the wall beside my bed. It’s covered in art and bones and photographs, all framed in baroque, black outlines. Some more beautiful than those they house. I see the lead portrait I agonised over for and of you.
I didn’t know why I was drawing it when I began. I mean- part of me realised, the other part sighed and was covered in pencil shavings.

Those grey, scratched eyes I drew greet me when I walk into my bedroom and see me at my ugliest. I wonder if your eyes would avoid locking mine if you were sitting on the edge of my bed at three in the afternoon when I’m having a down day and lookin’ like utter and absolute shit.
Eyes bloodshot and mascara trails down my cheeks. My skin would be all blotchy. I’d have my hair barely tied up, wearing some oversized tee and pair of black tracksuit pants.
I think maybe
—but then I remember all the conversations we’ve ever had and think not. We’re both too broken to disengage.

I asked you plainly what to do with it when I was finished and you told me to hang it up in my room.
“Wouldn’t that be weird?”
I remember texting you and you laughed at me and said no, so I did.

That picture reminds me of how often I think of you, and write of you.

Which is probably all too often, more often than you might assume. I can’t help it and I really don’t want to- help it, that is.
You are not what keeps me awake at night,
but when I wake from some nightmare it’s you I want to talk to
because I know you’ll still be half way across the globe no matter the hour.

Time keeps my eyes glassy and glued open, blinking only when I realise I’ve been staring at this screen for too damn long. Time doesn’t keep my appearance youthful and mentally I’ve never been young so we’ll leisurely skip ahead.
But my body is still plump and perky, though I do notice wrinkles forming around my eyes and setting into my forehead. The mirror heckles me on my best days.

Then I think of you again because I want you to see me move when I talk to you, how all my heritage has given me cause to speak with my hands and torment has given me habit to cover my mouth when I laugh.

In a twisted way I want you to pick me apart and tell me of all my flaws.

Then again,
maybe I don’t.
I’ve always been good at handling criticism but asking for it doesn’t come easily.

I want you to tell me I’m weird and maybe fucked up, but that you like me anyway.

I’m so vulnerable now.
Now that I’ve spilt my red wine soul all over your white button-down and apologised for the surefire stains. Surely you know my honesty and when I think I can’t bury myself any further into this quicksand I tell you that I love you and I’m another four feet down. Gagging and grasping at straws.
that’s me….

Gagging and grasping at straws.

Perhaps I am too honest, but I’m not telling you anything without feeling right about it.
That’s a notion you preach,
if it feels right
and so I’m spiralling on that jet of emotion, I’m holding onto that brown, paper bag with a grip so tight the paper is tearing where my fingers clutch. I’m living by a rule for the first time and it feels so safe,
so send me hurtling into space without a michelin suit, I’ll be fine. Just you watch. Just you see!

Mistakes will be made, feelings might get hurt yet I decide it’s all worth it because if that somewhere over the rainbow exists and comes to pass I wanna be there. Lounging in the light of the setting sun with a vintage, black swing dress on and back seamed nylons, with you.

And if I climb those mountains and the other side yields nothing but a sharp toothed decline then so be it. I’ll crack and crumble and break bones.
Maybe I’ll survive the fall.

You’ll see me standing with stained cheeks and red eyes, holding myself in the blackness of oblivion.

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