Coming to terms with her allegorical death

I wish I could say I've learned something dire, an important tid bit of information, but the only thing that I keep exploring is my inner thoughts. Too lost within? Stuck in the muck and tangled in memories? Yes, but at least I know so.

I've been reminded about the way that I was treated by many, disposed of like a bad habit (mirrors can be ugly things I guess), made aware of the injustice of the just, the lust behind the calm blue eyes of yesterday, and the complicated situations that being "alive" really brings on.

Not without much effort do I find myself entangled in the conversations with a lover who will always be, at the same time pulling away from others who dilly dally back and fro without knowing just what it is that they want from life. Rather, finding the self away from overtly complicated states is best right now, but my lover will always be there and that is more than anyone else can say.

It's been years, and years it will be until I'm in the arms of someone that I really trust again. Last time I trusted all too easy, letting the snide remarks slide, the back handed comments and words packed with bullets bounce, all along all of her horrible manifestations came from within to barrage me (or any unlucky male found present at her grasp) as if I'd been the one to hurt her, but I let her go on because I knew her pain and I wanted to help; thus she gave of herself to me, but one cannot deny the hurt that she caused to herself or to me, it's all kept away in the state of memories or even coming back in dreams. It truly makes the past sour but reminds me not to fall for her again.

My lover, I do not have to worry about that with. We've shared the world and more, a bed, a kiss or two, and even the words "I love you" without anything forcing us to fear or worry about what tomorrow may bring because we know that whatever it is we will be there. She is nothing like sour girl, she will never be. That is good, it is great, my childhood friend and lover becomes more than just a memory but a living part of my life. Meanwhile the sour one is embedded into dreams and memories as a husk of a woman I do not wish to have a part of ever again, and so it becomes easier to read others like her, to keep away.

Both of them held the same space once, yet they are complete opposites. Within my heart they found warmth and appreciation, and only one of them knew what to do with it, my solemn lover. Sour Girl knew nothing of such things, her appreciation of life seems only superficial, childish at best (spread your legs for happiness). Playing back and fro from flower bed to flower bed like an earthworm, just eating and defecating while pretending to save the world. Sure, she helps flowers bloom much as she helped me, but the cost of the life led is so much higher than any price I'd be willing to pay, otherwise why would she want to run away from herself so badly with the drugs, sex, and alcohol? And run she does.

With one breath, she stitches together what is left of my heart. With a few words she pumps the eviscerated organs with life and brings me back to stature. She knows what to say to make me smile, to bring out the light within me. My solemn lover will always be there to stitch me back together when sour girls have their way.

This is what I've learned lately, I know it's not much, but to me it's a world.

I think movie lines are funny, so what?

Nothing to write, at least nothing I want to share with anyone. Life is meh. It's ok, I'm getting used to being tossed to the side like a half dead dog. It only fuels my hate for them. I hope you get what you deserve.

...

I felt like writing on my way home from my sisters graduation today, which I was only able to attend for a little while, but now I'm just not feeling letting out all of this... shit. Yes, shit. Because it's all I beget. What a waste, my whole life ahead of me is a waste. I can't do anything to help myself right. I just want to...

Truths in quotes

"she was consumed by 3 simple things:
drink, despair, loneliness; and 2 more:
youth and beauty"
— Charles Bukowski (The People Look Like Flowers At Last: New Poems)