I wondered why we weren't together...

I know what I want, but not well enough to pin it down. I just get so overwhelmed...

"Fuck you... And you wonder why I have a hard time feeling. It's because of girls like you..."

I spent 30 minutes in my car, salt running down my cheeks smudging the black I use to try to be presentable down my chin. And not because of the above line... That was just a consequence of the rest. I could care less what one person, even a hundred people, want to judge me for.

It feels different, somehow more lonely,  when I'm crying here. Back home, I held it in until I was safely in my room, no one to ask me what was wrong, but I knew my mother and father were right downstairs in case I decided I couldn't handle everything by myself. I always did... But now I would give anything to have my mom right downstairs, sleeping, ready to wake up in a terrified wale if I snuck into her room. I'd give anything to tell my mother everything that's going on... But I couldn't even if she didn't care to know.

I was sitting in my car... ready to run.... like always. I can't explain what's going on and I don't want people to see the frail, needy me that I hide. I actually can't tell if I'm hiding it or it isn't that much a part of me... I'd like to think the latter but I won't rule out the predecessor.

I think it's just a little harder for me now... without the cutting, without the alcohol, without the drugs... to cope with all that I have going on... especially in this nearly schizo matter in my head making me crazy. It would be so easy to fall back into any of those things... I did them well for so long.

This is all most likely just a rambling mess... No description, just ranting. I'm not even going to read through it because I'll hate it all.

I'm to critical.

I'm done crying... My face is stiff from dried tears and my body aches for something more. I'll never stop, you know.

Oh sweet words... I have found you.

In the morning the rain makes me long for something more. I wonder what I'm doing--working two waitressing jobs--that I love, nonetheless--but without writing. I haven't written in so long and I need it. It hurts me not to write and it hurts me even more that I've had plenty of things to write about here but have pretended that I haven't had the time or needed a break.

At night the rain blurs every line, every light, every thought. The smudged streaks of red foreshortened on the wet black road draws me forward, like a fly towards a glowing electrified zap, while the green lights push me on. I wouldn't mind leaving this place... Just like that. It will happen soon I'm sure, so if you're here and you care to spend time I'd do it now.

The next rainy night, driving aimlessly around town, keeping both hands on the wheel--as if that means I know where I'm headed--as the steering wheel jerks through the puddles, I'll sneak out. I'll have no qualms about telling no one. They'll text me for a drink and as infinitesimal as possible I'll say, "I'm not in Columbia anymore." And that will be that... A new city, new people to learn and love, a new adventure.

At night the rain blurs everything. It's treacherous and eerie and dark... But aren't those the words I live for?

I left. I went away, right in the heat of the moment. But isn't that the life I've chosen, always leaving before I begin.

This is important. No matter what I say here, I wouldn't have stayed and I won't stay now.

I heard upon my return you had found someone and she does look beautiful with you, her dark hair always pulled back from her intense eyes and pursed lips, never smiling, never frowning, almost in a trance like this world is well below her.
I would have liked to try you out.
When we were talking the other night, those lips, a pale maroon that contrast sharply with your lack of color, were moving to the tune of films and cigarettes, artists and the untimely darkness that consumes them and most likely us one day. You're eyes like the inside of an avocado, showed the opposition of your ego. I wonder would she make the same observation.
I had left just for a short time and you alluded me.

I sat at Lodo's with my knees propped up against the wooden bar, staring into the golden red lampshades. The smoke from my mouth hung there, underneath the warm rays of phosphorus. What if I hadn't left, playing for two weeks in Europe? Would things be different? Probably but only towards their demise.
Every cold-blooded creature needs warmth every now and then, but a snake can scorch if subjected to the sun for too long.

She sat in the bar and read. Read in a bar and drank Mountain Dew. She was a little under halfway through the book, and she lingered on pages trying to concentrate with the noise. A bar on Thursday with half price drink specials is not the place to read and I'm sure she didn't care about the words but more about her perception. But I suppose that's why I keep smoking. I have an idea of myself as the artist, sitting in a seedy apartment building throwing words together while pacing with rum in one hand and a smoke in the other. We’ve talked about this. Mountain Dew just doesn't thrash me into a new world.

I dislike that you talk about her every time I'm around. She has a beautiful voice and can sing your songs. I long to sing them. I'd try if you'd let me but that would probably only make you cringe. I like that you’re talking to me and wouldn’t mind talking about her if only she wasn’t sleeping in your bed or you in hers.
You said before you left, “I hope your day gets better.” I'd cut out my tongue to tell you why it's bad and I'd cut out hers for you to make it better. I know she's lovely but I hate that you might love her. I need to get away. This illusion is driving me mad.