Wait Until I'm Gone
"You always were so good to me"
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I caught myself in the middle of a lecture, dropping me down to my skull that I am trying to make sense of the first, the next, and the last thing I see. The first thing I hear. The next thing I feel. And the last thing I think.
I add in vowels, scrambling and re-scrambling and puzzling back together. Consonants just don't mean a thing with out a purpose, right...?
It's silly, because I cannot even find an atom of a sense in me. But I continually strain myself to dig for answers that I could never find. Because I won't let it find me.
I won't let anything find me.
At least not anymore.
I've been under the pillow, under the covers, under the mattress for months, and disregarding the auto-pilot, I can't get myself to get up off of everything.
Sometimes I open a hole through the sheets for myself.
And I close back in, hermit-krabbing through something I'm running from. I just don't know what yet.
I'm not exhausted and I hardly sweat it out. The person in front of me waves me a flail, only to find glassy eyes and a flagrant yawn that seem to repel and forget whatever the next thing you'll say.
So how is it that I try to make sense of it all? Because I know I can't.
And it's too irresistible to leave alone my [can't]s.
It's too irresistible to care as much as I used to, but no one could ever know that.
I'm interpersonally intrapersonal.
I add in vowels, scrambling and re-scrambling and puzzling back together. Consonants just don't mean a thing with out a purpose, right...?
It's silly, because I cannot even find an atom of a sense in me. But I continually strain myself to dig for answers that I could never find. Because I won't let it find me.
I won't let anything find me.
At least not anymore.
I've been under the pillow, under the covers, under the mattress for months, and disregarding the auto-pilot, I can't get myself to get up off of everything.
Sometimes I open a hole through the sheets for myself.
And I close back in, hermit-krabbing through something I'm running from. I just don't know what yet.
I'm not exhausted and I hardly sweat it out. The person in front of me waves me a flail, only to find glassy eyes and a flagrant yawn that seem to repel and forget whatever the next thing you'll say.
So how is it that I try to make sense of it all? Because I know I can't.
And it's too irresistible to leave alone my [can't]s.
It's too irresistible to care as much as I used to, but no one could ever know that.
I'm interpersonally intrapersonal.
_
