Late night boiler noises.
It’s funny how some sounds keep some of us awake, but not others.
Like ticking clocks.
I find them strangely comforting to fall asleep to.
They remind me of being young,
of being sent to stay in strange houses,
where even the pattern of the streetlight was unfamiliar,
but still the clock ticked,
same rhythm, same as ever.
It was wrong of me to make you the keeper of my confidence.
I already beat you to making me feel bad,
because – let’s face it – I’m just trash.
What can be done with me anyway?
I’m no good at what I’m meant to be good at
and I guess that makes me pretty useless to you.
Just leave me here, turning promises into thin air.
I deserve my [a]lone(li)ness.
What will inevitably happen is this:
You will get sick of me and my asininity,
and you will turn your back forever,
and I will say: ‘See? I told you so.’
Even though you’re only doing what you have to
(to save yourself)
to not get knocked down by all the pushing from my direction.
That was a ‘no’ to my last question, wasn’t it?
I don’t want to push you away.
I don’t want to push anyone away.
I’m too demanding and needy
and it’s inexcusable
and it’s nearly as shameful
as finding out there isn’t really anything nice to say about me.
A bone to pick with myself.
I’m just a cliché with no context.
Pretending I’m anything else is too exhausting (for both of us.)
I can’t write unless I feel something,
whatever emotion hits me at any given moment,
but the world wants to keep me restlessly desensitised.
He keeps telling me I owe no explanations.
But what if I really want to explain?
What if I want to tear my fucking heart out just so I can hold it up and say:
I want to show the world how my insides are just like everybody else’s.
But not quite.