kissing other lips, but none as sweet as yours. eyes wise, wide open. overlarge teeth--mouth too small, tongue too wide. I am cataloguing all of me, bit by bit, compartmentalizing myself. placing my self, myself into boxes. (what comprises the self? what do you mean by the soul? what goes in, what stays out. what goes in stays out.) first goes the shining idealism, the words which keep me calm at night. the english language. all of the books that have sustained me. next to go is my memory of you, your shirts and your mouth and your hands. your fingers, too short, hands soft and warm: I will never need these again. mo memory of this will serve me as well as the real thing. in a different box is the thought of being unloved and lonely, a time when I was so selfish I forgot to let you breathe. that box gets my hatred, my bitterness, my fondness for another. the fourth box holds my music. this box is so fragile, handled with such care because it was not something I held myself for very long. the contents are slippery, shatter easily, quick to scratch. they can't hold themselves together as easily as my words, don't function as well without the beating of my heart. words stand alone, battered from sixteen going on seventeen years of use. words are something my own and all the same belonging to no one. music is held too close to me to be treated with the same lack of care in its handling. four boxes filled, carefully, with all of me, placed outside myself. "for rent" says the shell of what's left; conversation comes slow when only one party really exists. no one wants to hear about your day, so only ask about theirs. you can keep everyone happy if the focus isn't on you. no one needs to know how sick you're getting. what they don't know will only kill you.


god damn I am like king of the emo bitches. wtf.