i’ll follow you forever
the snow won’t go away, my nose runs down my face
no one sees me here, it doesn’t even matter
and every step i take, i stay in the same place
i can’t begin to start again why can’t i just be perfect?
i will never recover from this
i will never believe in this again
i can never go back to the way i used to be before this started
– “ides of march” by Silverstein
You are my world, dearest babydoll. You haven’t seen me, the crazy, the depraved sick things of my life that stick to my ribs like mother’s lies.
Crazy. Something I’ve been told all my life. Maybe I have been all my life. Old life, told all life, as long as I can remember I’ve been “different” a charade of normalcy. It never felt right to me. Friends? So hard to keep. It’s the spirits that haunt me, that listen, that respond. I love it. I love my treefriends. They make me happy and feel normal. But deep down, I fear I’m not. Fear I’ll never be accepted. That one day I’m Just going to break and end up in a ward for the rest of my Life. It’s been prophecized, a demon the scourge of my mind. Myself. My own sick thoughts that have lulled me into vivid nightmares for so long now. I’ve lived in fear most of my life. But not with you, finally, oh baby not with you. You make my life a dreamland, like everything can suddenly be special again. The dark holds me but you, oh sweetness… you must be the light.
It’s thanksgiving today. I feel thankful. Mom said I’ve been making progress…which means ugh now I have to ruin thanksgiving again. I have to regress so she doesn’t treat me differently. So she doesn’t one day think I’m magically “better” and then poof I’m an adult. I don’t want to be an adult because I KNOW what that means: responsibility, mundaneness, endless work, meaninglessness, routine tasks, no magic, no innocence, no fun, no happiness….boring. Stupid. Horrid.
I don’t want any of it.
Sometimes I think it mght be ok…but those thoughts scare me. It’s like my mind is turning against me, my body has already turned against me. I remember when I hit puberty, plucking out pubic hairs with a tweezer and when they got too much, ripping them out in clumps by hand. Wearing tight sports bras to band my chest. Never wanting to change my clothing style till it became ridiculous to the point of ridicule. I still don’t like jeans.
“Peter Pan Syndrome”
We love the taste of cereal and would have breakfast at every meal if we could – cheerios and chocolate milkshakes over a pile of comic books, dreaming.
Let’s never read directions, but twist our way through streets – destination anywhere – winding our way to sunset. And it seems so careless, but I just want to let my soul drift with yours in an eternal state of wanderlust.
If you’re curious, my favorite color is violet. I sing in the shower sometimes and I read books in the corner next to the vent. I wish I could smell like strawberry candy, and sidewalk chalk was my first paint brush. I have trouble using a desk at home and I will always harbor an affinity for oatmeal raisin cookies. I have nothing to hide
Tell me your dreams over the phone and take me with you to that sun-drenched island – home base – with your library of matrices, wastelands, lost cities, and demons. In the eclipse of my sun, when my imaginary friends disappear in the darkness, please remain.
You say what you feel, and mean what you say, and say what you see, and you see love. I do too.
Let’s run away to never-never land and never, never come back.