overview

Just read my thoughts. It's crazy how everything repeats. For those following along, I still care, sometimes more, sometimes less, usually ineffectively. I think I may have actually bent it so far I can't straighten it out again. And the hand on my hip meant what I hoped, we're living in Typical Town, Teen Romance, USA, pop. you and me. And it's the only good thing, and it's so good and so fast and we're both so entangled, and he's going to Vermont and (pray to god) I'll be in MD. And his house is breaking and mine is falling, and maybe that's a cause and maybe it's not. And I hate thinking about it so I'll stop and think about hands and lips and stories and status updates and hearts (internet and otherwise). And we still can't pay, and I still can't believe it, and I'm still selfish and screaming. But not sorry anymore.

one more time

Is it bratty to be angry because she won't give me a dime? Or should I say can't? What if when I'm screaming at her I can see my open mouth reflected in the gleaming surface of the newly redone hardwood floors? In the silky sheen of her new living room set (a love seat and two chairs)? In the faux-distressed finish of the imposing new dining room table? In the tears like echoes down her cheeks? Déjà vu again, same old story, how many times have I ruined our relationship now? If you love me so much, if you're the goddamn saint, tell me what you hear me saying. Tell me if I sound like someone who doesn't care. Tell me if someone who didn't care would take the time to remember which site was completely anonymous, so there's no way [she] can be assigned a proper noun. I'm every cliché, but maybe I can't do it best every time. I don't try to make a scene, but I can't keep saying sorry. I can't patch it up, because I've lost track of what's beneath the plaster. I hate it when you call me a puppet, and I making you cry, and I hate how I feel, and I'm just tired.