the ass arrived, beautiful and most brave

i've always thought i was right.
its never been, what if i'm wrong, what if this isn't the thing to do, the thing to say, the moment to take a hand, push a friend, yell expletives at a child or skip a class.
i've never thought anything i did was wrong.
something in me makes me horrible. something in me makes me lie to your face and call you out on everything. i leave, in a rush of smoke and mirrors and hatred and i don't come back when you beg and i don't care when you cry. don't you remember? i do. i remember boys crumpled in my closet and my best friend spitting in my face. and me apologizing and apologizing. usually on the inside your still wrong and i'm still standing five feet up, in the clouds and the wonderful delusion of it all. inside its ok because none of this nonsense means anything to me. but i think i stumbled. maybe it was three years ago i stumbled. maybe it was that day. when i picked up that boy in the closet and really tried to make things better with the girl. betrayal! a change in the systematic chaos that was me then. the long haired girl who stood outside in the cold and threw cig butts on the mustang in front of her apt and walked down military brave and stupid and free. that place in my life. it did something to me. i wish i had never lived there, never answered those phone calls and never fucked that guy. too late.
ugh tonight is an ugly night. full on quivering breath and two books i can't even sit and read properly. anxiety from every corner. words and fists and dizziness and me just wanting a blue pill so i can sleep. i can't find myself. im going to be 23 and i can't feel where my feet are, or even if they're under me. i'm selfish and i try to hard to be liked. i fidget in public and go out in dirty clothes. every person i see i imagine getting close to them to see if i can find the on/off button. imagine taking them apart and stroking hair and lying in the dark and touching touching touching. what you have isn't always what you want is it? or is that the greed and the silky voice of temptation those wacky christians always go on about? fuck. i don't know. satisfaction. a word a want a fallacy. a stupid thing to try and achieve seamlessly if you ask me. at least for the strong minded but weak willed. when you want to say yes but can't for fear of a straight line instead of a jagged nicotine laced line of the usual.
maybe it's change.
or completing a sentence with thank you.
[theres a sickness here to be referred to]
something to remember, a warning paragraph at the beginning.
we were in the car today, me and my married couple friends. we were driving and i was in the backseat watching them. i found myself thinking how much i loved these two people and how much i needed to get away from them. i was in the backseat. melting. jealous. she would touch his hair and tilt her head in his direction. he would look at her at the red lights and smile when she got mad. together they glowed brighter than the texas sun. gave off more heat that the pavement. we drove on. stopping to eat. to buy clothes and shoes and walk. together we participated in the ruining of stephanie. today they created something of a monster. and heres me. said monster. typing in the dark at another persons house. away from the person i thought i loved. i think i love. but if it was something substantial why are we always doing this? why am i still seething after 3 hours. why was i so set on hurting him before i left, getting the proverbial last laugh. shrinks shake their heads here, a thousand pens tapping white pads and saying couples have to fight its healthy you're healthy and you have to be in love to be happy. alone against them i'm tired and leaning. ready with the white flag by my side. waiting for the one time where lying down beats pride. i shouldn't be comparing. i shouldn't be holding up crystal to cheap glass. i should know better. but its so easy. too easy. and its costing me. im too busy daydreaming and forgetting that the man asleep in the apartment ive abandoned for the night is the same man who saved me from the hell i was in 2 years ago. the same man that drove around town at 2 in the morning looking for my little brother whenever my step mom called him hysterical. the one who wasn't afraid to hold me at the same little brothers funeral and cry harder than me and just hold me while the useless small man i was with sat next to me at arms length and looked lost. hes an artist. a soul. and while i lash and rage and shake he waits. patiently. pressure here. something like laying in a street and waiting. something like a push you weren't expecting. a spark? why do i only love him when i write or talk? why cant i touch him when hes right there?
[the sickness, something in me makes me horrible]
the nyQuil is kicking. wont be long now.
punctuation abandoned i try to pull from the back of my head.
i play song i know make me cry.
i see the nail polish and i want to chew it off.
my head is pulsating.
and matt's mom said i could have her shoes.

what an image.
theres no structure to any of this.


please please please please

change me.