Subtle indifference with causation as to who’s leading who.
I’ve noticed this context compelled in disastrous ways.
I think the real fallacy is in hand-holding.
This dismay, that if you were to let go or a loved one were to let go, or even the one you’ve been sneakily displaying admiration and affection to for years has suddenly popped up and left because you didn’t hold on long enough or so tightly.
The tighter the grip, the quicker you’ll fall when you really need to be ready.
I propose this image onto even my loved ones.
I love from the back corner, I love and leave to go to the store, I love and leave for a sequistor in my own backyard. I say it’s just to breathe and for space, and even then I find myself wound tighter in this spider network that faults in severity between love, obsession, and admiration.
I didn’t say I left, even if I leave.
When I say I want to be alone, I’m not asking you to leave.
Your thoughts occupy strictly that it’s become a go-to practice.
Even years later, I hold my loved ones, friends, and acquaintances in high-regard if I’ve cared enough to keep them safe in my punctured memory of loss, after all these years have passed and still knock me on my ass habitually.
Even when I leave, you take the fall just to shelter my falling ass away from whatever trouble I wanted to land myself in this time just because entertainment is necessitated and my entertainment must be cheap to free for real fulfillment.
I think that’s the fallacy I’ve experienced in my relationship.
Nothing new. Nothing original.
I don’t want to box myself in when I’ve always been a rhombus imitating a parallelogram and you call me square.
It’s not quite the same.
I think you’re being funny when you insult me directly and note on my insecurities and the banter starts.
Then I sit on it, and realize I’ve left you with all my vulnerability to insult me in caricature and you know I’m not leaving.
I’m just glad someone fucking said it, so I didn’t have to explain it.
You even made it a jokey-joke so I get a free laugh without the show.
I like your concept. I like your plays.
In the end, no matter how long has passed since you’ve heard my words, received text (because I will simply not call unless you call me, I don’t need an anxiety episode), and if I beg you to call, I know where I stand.
Even longer goes since you’ve seen my face.
That doesn’t matter though.
I give up on myself everyday, but I’ve never given up on you. Even if it seems vain, faded, and only in memory.
People are allowed to come and go as they want to.
I’m more on the receiving end of “needing” to, so I physically don’t implode from the waste-away of my over-excess of emotion displayed in cold demeanor and shy, verbose smirks.
I guess in the end, you’re unconditional.
That’s all I’m really saying.
Why?
Because after all this time, I know I’m coming back to you and you’ll be waiting without even sent word to come find my ass.
I smell your bullshit like ozone a mile away.
I don’t know what type of bloodhound you are to keep sticking around and find me, but I gotta admit.
It’s a good look for you.
I wanna see some more of that.
Rabbit-hole it if you need to, because I want to.
In indifferential chaos, I choose you. I hang onto you in the ways I don’t want to explain and dumb down because it wouldn’t catch the concept anyways. I don’t want to look or seem soft to you, even when I’m lathering up the cocoa butter.
I refuse to be weak, even if alot you my softness.
My dainty nature I mostly disdain as I compile ingredients for a healthy enough meal for you to like because you look like dogshit and have shit for brains with all those nitrate meats you like to eat. You don’t realize as I’ve finished half a pot of coffee and berate me to drink water so I don’t bitch my headache into fruition until the end of dinner and I need my digestivo to compensate my appeal for eating healthy (forcibly).
I drink more than my recommended 8 cups of water a day; you don’t do that, but I still want to hear it.
I still want to know that you observe as much as I analyze.
It means you care.
It’s not just me flooding the basement in shit-eating grins, baby talk, and sacrificing my portion of the vape because I know you’re secretly disappointed if I were to break out a loose lucky emergency cigarette when I feel I need it or you wish for it.
I avoid your vices unless it comes to character.
You avoid my faulty characteristics and look to my vices to point out “you aren’t very happy with yourself right now, are you?”
From one shit-eating smirker to the person that eats verbal shit for a living.
I love you.
Thank you for hanging on while I had to go take care of it.
Stick around so we can get around to celebrating one day.
I promise I’ll even wear real pants or that dress or this skirt you like, and lose my sweats for once.
I’ll still be comfortable, I’ll still feel nurtured and safe in this little space we’ve created for each other.
And in the end, you’re the only one I trust to point out my faults, mistakes, fuck-ups, and debauchery crusades.
Even if you join me.
Even if you “fuck up more” than I did. .
I didn’t have to go it alone.
I rather you go lower with me, than stick on your high-horse and I put you on a pedestal.
This isn’t New Jersey, I’m not a stepford wife and you’re not a tennis husband.
I come from the mud, and you came slightly higher in caste than me as gutter trash.
Yet we ride so high in our moody little depths.
An oasis of honesty.
If that’s what I love most about you, about this concept I’ve made of you and all of you.
I showed myself to you.
I trust you.
I was the authentic real me, not flowing in the motions code-switching my entire life to get by.
I know you’re there for me.
You don’t have to tell me, I’ll say it for the both of us.
I’m sorry. I love you. I forgive you.
What do you feel like doing today?
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