"I am too little butter on too much bread,
"I am too many thoughts in too little head."
Tyler Knott Gregson got that far
But these stumbling, cotton-mouthed words I write
Fall flat
As I try to describe what he couldn't
He couldn't sense more
But I do
And that,
That's the difference.
"The difference"
Words composed of lines and curves
That look suspiciously like they're composing a noose.
I don't know whether to speak up
For would they stop if I did?
Would they halt, slink back into stillness,
Or resume their sadistic slithering?
I'm sick of being able to read souls in bookstores
I'm sick of the spinning, shouting, wrong, behindness of the world
I'm sick of pretend literature and Christmas music
I'm sick of feeling like flying is falling
There is a beyond
And that's where I am
So I've forgotten the meaning of "here"
I wish I could
Separate
I want to know what to feel at these photoshopped faces smirking at me from the covers of Christian self-help books
I want to set aside the desperate love that I'm screaming curses at without humbling myself enough to say a word
I climb into now my brother's bed and I can't breathe.
What am I anymore?
I know it gets easier the instant I'm with you and only you.
I need to find pride in my contradictions?
I need to fall in love with the beauty of myself?
I need to smile at the acid in my stomach
As my meaningless head threatens to break the neck below it?
You and only you
There and only there
But I -- can't --
