329/ January 7, 2012 - We sleep on streets.
Everyday, I wake up to find new bruises on my body— it’s either I have a rare disease or I’ve been skating in my sleep. I try to make light of heavy things. Benadryl and books, beer and why I don’t drink it, the body and a boy I never intended to meet. I’m a walking Kleenex advertisement and people still don’t know how to ask the right questions. What happened? only really means Come on, show me the bruises.
I just had another bad dream with you in it and I want you to “leave me the fuck alone,” but those were your words. Never forget this: I tell you not to touch me and I wake up, you’ve taken off my clothes. And now you’re the one with the right, the nerve to tell me to leave you the fuck alone. Ex-boyfriend, ex-lover, Holocaust, Holocene, whatever I need to call you to convince me you are not magnificent. You’ve made me too much like you, and at some point you’ll agree, you’re almost me. I’ll leave you the fuck alone, although I know we can’t escape each other even if we never speak.
You and I will never be friends, I get it. “I love you but I don’t like you” is some hollow line you ripped off of many places, including the place you once occupied in me.
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