where I’m from

Where I’m from, things stay hidden, they aren’t real and barely penetrate the surface. I can see how sad this makes him underneath the feigned blankness of dark eyes, and when he whispers in my ear I think about somebody else, pretending I’m somewhere completely different, existing only in my hidden world. I’ve created a dreamland for myself, constantly staring at fluffy cloud formations and dancing over broken leaves, being with people I shouldn’t be with, thinking about the days of soul selling. Here, it always smells like burnt apple pie, and I can see the smoke rising up from dark hair as I attempt to create something satisfactory. Better. We’re all twisted up in the morning, limbs tangled in comfortable knots, hair effortlessly teased, eyes tired, bruises forming along with slow smiles. I could stare at you forever. Pale arms wrapped around cold skin, shivering, keeping my eyes closed as you throw up the blinds and flood my tiny room with glaring luminescence, trying to keep me warm in the most uncomfortable ways. I know you don’t understand my minimalistic nature or why I constantly talk about a year of mornings, but you’ve got a bed in a bookstore and that’s all that matters. I’m in a trancelike state as I warm myself under this large blanket, closing my eyes and feeling the heat drift slowly out of the dusty vents, feeling nothing substantial and pretending that my hands aren’t icy. Love will save us all, but nobody’s ready to be saved. The sun is disappearing early these days, bottles of red liquid are rapidly consumed, words are difficult to find – I’m sorry, I’ve been meaning to write but seem to have nothing but boxes filled with excuses and papers covered in spirals and poorly-executed sketches.
I think you’re far from being a good person, but I loved how you’d laugh while witnessing my simultaneous disgust and fascination with certain things.  I’d like to believe that you’re not as lost as I am, as distant from reality or in denial of what you want and feel, but the way your eyes close when you try to speak to me displays your genuine attempts at masking the truth. I never judge, only want more, mostly from myself, and random cycles of honest thought have made me realize how truly different we are. I refuse to go through a twenty-second year feeling defeat, disappointment, or regret, and you are drowning in a broth of genuine dissatisfaction, throwing away moments that are potentially beautiful and having the ability to change the patterns that have so unfortunately shaped your life. You don’t read, you don’t speak, you don’t care, but I can see how removed from your ideal life you are now and the way that loneliness clings to your skin, holding on so easily, never having to fight back.
I remember the big window and looking out over the cemetery, thinking about full hearts, altruism, slow compassion, rough hands, soft eyes. Big windows are only worth something if you can look through the glass without thinking about the pain and hatred that people feel toward themselves and others, and I’m not sure that’s genuinely possible anymore. I’m thinking of the time you wanted toast with the butter divisively sliding toward opposite corners and I was too lazy to look for the toaster, the time you bruised me twice in the exact same place and looking at it made me smile for a week, the time you were too drunk to hold in the words spilling from your mouth and were so embarassed the next morning, the time I fell on the ground and let anxiety overtake me, not breathing right, not doing anything right, the times we smoked in the bathtub and covered all the possibilities. I’m thinkin thinkin thinkin and I’m realizin that in the end, it’s all a stupid game and I don’t want to play anymore.