• Milk Mustaches & The Smoke

    by  • March 12, 2018 • * Safe for Work *, To You • 0 Comments

    I don’t want to be here. I don’t have the capacity for it. I don’t know who can, who does, who can stand up strongly and take this on for as long as I have. I don’t know how long you can bring yourself to wait for the grand escape, falling into the only escapes you know. You stay around people who hurt you, who you know you can find better then. But you love them. They love you. They can make you happy. And they can take you away.

    I wish I could say that I wasn’t fading. But I am. I do make bad decisions. I make these decisions out of fear of losing myself to my own hands, and chasing after the things I’ve experienced that have made me feel like I want to stay. Knocking at their doors, revisiting these places. Those that have the ability to make me feel alive. Those places where the life coursed through my veins and I knew then that if I had left before, I never would’ve felt these things.

    Now I’m feeling ready to let go. Clawing at the locked windows of houses that made me feel alive, that kept me wanting to stay here. Reminding me that life isn’t finished with me yet. That the journey isn’t over but the beautiful things are going to keep coming too.

    He says it’s like you came in here for a feel good movie, but it’s a physical horror film that you’ve brought your loved ones into. And it was supposed to be five hours long, but we’re halfway through hour eight. Bruised and battered, bloodied and down for the count. Any attempts against these monsters, go unscathed. They’re here for us. They’re here for me. And they’ve been close to succeeding.

    I’m brought back to memories of those late nights, where the most exciting thing I did was wait to hear you come up the stairs. Open up the fridge and pour yourself a glass of milk. And I’d come out of my bedroom, just to go to the kitchen and have a glass with you. Us laughing at our milk mustaches.

    Then, flash forward and I’m older. Old enough to go further than the kitchen, into other arms than yours. Then I’m in his, and this is where the real danger comes through. Driving with dealers, almost wrecking and his arms out in front of me. Some fruity flavored smoke coating the windows, some flannel shirt wrapped around me and tracing your name into the fog on the windows. Knowing you were leaving me.

    Because of so many blows I’ve taken, when I’m without substance, without chemicals, without sedatives or tranquilizers, I shake. I beat myself as everything courses through me. I feel everything. I feel enough that it radiates to everyone around me, the nature around me. I can’t sleep, I can’t stand still. I’m looked at as though I’m on fire, because naturally, I am. They bring out the extinguishers but this isn’t how it works. This fire is here because of hands that knew how to light them so they couldn’t be put out. And so naturally, I burn and take everything with me.

    And although it’s known that it’s there, no one wants to hear anything more about it. They just sit you down and pray it goes. But it’s here, and it’s permanent. It is of my make up now. Because of her, of her, of him. Of here, of now, of then and before and everything to come. The neon lights in my eyes and an iced drink in my hand, smoke from my lips and pills down my throat are the only things that can put it out. Or allow it to burn in a way that others can only just feel the heat of, and that I can use to my power.

    Those people that kill cats for fun, I am their prey. I don’t find pleasure in watching the life leave something, I am the one caught in the net. The one that’s all white, the prized catch. You can watch as every inch of white is turned dark as it burns. The sociopathic pyromaniac’s fantasy come to life.

    Like kissing bugs under my skin, lips everywhere I wanted to be kissed. Days where the sun didn’t burn and these skies seemed to drop ladders to your feet, your hand in mine bringing me upwards. Heavens, you’d sigh, nothing like you. I was only of the earth, but you brought me elsewhere and made me feel otherwise. But they ripped me apart from the inside out.

    I try and feel his hands again. I do anything I can to replicate that euphoria from that brief time frame, but nothing can come close. It’s about that and it’s about feeling blurred throughout all of this.

    You called me haze for a reason. I bring the blur, and I must be in one. You either potentiate the haze or bring it down. And I don’t keep anyone around who doesn’t get why I’m here.

    Come back. You’ve teased the idea. Come back, I’ll make it worth your while.

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