alltheavenueslookugly

dear molly,

a letter to you because it has been so long and i hope you haven’t forgotten me.

it may be the seroquel or the doubling of my trileptal – or a combination of both that is gifting me with breaks in my day –

my apartment is hot and there is sleep with these shit-like dream movies  –  we can roll the bones and take a guess as to whether the avenues will be beautiful with smiles or devastating because they are too real to even understand

as they are just small framed photographs of that other dark part of my mind. sometimes i can dig through them and find myself in my childhood haunts when this was all beginning. i should have seen it coming when i was ten years old and sitting alone thinking – not knowing i should be wishing that maybe i could die immediately and save myself the agony of unknown years that would come.

i’ve managed to keep everybody close enough that they can still hear me screaming at them but far enough that i won’t drag them down into all of this with me. they will always look prettier than i will because they aren’t wearing these disasters tattooed up and down their bodies.

reaching for my hands will eventually end and i’ll get a far away over the shoulder frown – and it’s okay because i know how tiring it can be.

and this movie ends and a new one begins –

and it is us

dancing beneath the sheets  – you kissing pathways to everywhere and i walking fingers over and inside of you – and having let a scared shaky orgasm evaporate our balance we crumbled sweaty perfect and sticking to each other’s eyes –

darling, i trust that you have given me all the love you have to give,  in these black broken splinters that are stuck in my palms.

the pillows will still smell like you for weeks afterward –

i am smiling. i know that i am smiling because it has broken my cheeks and i don’t even mind.

when you are ready, come back and we will die together if it sounds like fun or the more responsible way to disappear from here.

when i wake up you are gone again.

the crowds are gone again.

all that is left of your smell is what i was able to capture in this little plastic bottle.

 

my apartment is hot, and already i miss the shit-like dream movies and the possibility of the wonderful sequels.

i’ve just fallen so many times that even the nightmares can hug me more comfortably than this dirty stale air can.

i know you understand this more than others.

 

– sean

 

 

 

 

 

~ by alltheavenueslookugly on 2014/06/24.

Posted in june14
Tags: anxiety, bipolar disorder, depression, dreams, happiness, hating self, love, medications, mental illness, nightmares, posts about suicide, self harm, self hating, sex, sleep