That isn’t what I mean.
What I mean is: People. We expect the worst and then make an okay face at the little. We expect the best and compromise for the let-downs which arise in their place. How can we know what to want when we can’t expect to know?
We treat each other like outsiders. That is what I want to feel. That is what I want to know.
In light of you, I don’t mean anything. Even the bits of me I share with you, become you. . .
I want to find the fucking words. I want to think in short sentences and forget that there was ever anything convoluted in my head in the first place. How do you think through the mess? My head is like a landfill. I am a dumpster diver.
It’s there; it’s here. I fall asleep in your branches.
It’s movement. Not moving on.