What’s more, I’m sure he still does.

“What was it you liked about him?”

 

The way his mind worked. . . he saw the stars when the sun was still out.

 

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Z. L.

Zouk Love is Real Love.  Gonna miss you so much ❤  I’m the one dancing with her at the very beginning, before Ethan cuts in 😀

 

(Our interview is in two hours and I’m terrified, tryna take my mind off that)

 

Electric Guest + word vomit for your pleasure

 

Today’s post is brought to you by my brother.  Who always has the tunes.

 

I want to transcend this in a fevered dream.  I chase dancefloors because honestly, that’s an easy shortcut to human connection.  Putting in the dirty work feels like… too much like a 9-5 (but worth it, worth it, worth it, maybe?).  I run out of things to say, suspect you were bored, what do I have to do, throw confetti and do a quiet, intricate pantomime?  Shouldn’t feel like I have to entertain people.  Like I’m not living up to my reputation if I’m not keeping you in a constant state of laughter/dizzy/awestruck, etc.

It’s a relief when I unlock my door, step inside, pull myself in like I’ve escaped.  This apartment is the only place where the air in front of my face isn’t lava.  Being alone is so much easier.  Why do social situations make me feel as if I’ve FAILED.

oh god i hate the ending.

Never going to apologize for being honest, or for sharing how I feel.  I strive for truthfulness, on a molecular level, on a mystical level, to the 5th, 6th, and 7th dimension.  I was honest with my friend today which apparently made him feel bad.  Not sure why telling him something about MYSELF constitutes being a judgemental person, but after all.. I can rest easy.  I was genuine, fully.  Maybe moreso than usual.  Too many superficial friendships.  They’re kinda useless innit?

 

EDIT:  The above looks mad bitter.  We patched things up, talked things out… there were misunderstandings on both sides.  Friendships are difficult.  Worth it though.

About this poem… I HATE the ending.  That’s what I mean by not being fully honest.. when this poem still lived in my head it ended differently.  I’m searching for that ending because anything less is a dishonest reproduction.

home
alone
is an
oxymoron.

if I’m not
filling your plate,
what good are
these hands?

bed is just furniture.
dead trees or
metal jewelry- post crucible
remembered fire.

safety in oblivion.

I still lock my door
solo universe, me myself
and my gut bacteria

 

self/war