a paw in my face - the field

i feel so bent and broken talking to you. the bigger Me wants to be stoic and ignore all my faults that you don't like... Want to hush my inner nag screaming at me to kiss your adorable face... want to strangle the voice of reason droning how you'll never care about me in that way. want to listen to you as a friend instead of some hurt child that'll never really understand why it's unlovable.

i'm a map of scratches, slices and rips... i'm kidney damage from thick cocaine strips... i'm sour faced and laced up with stomach cramps in the mornings... i'm sad-faced and tired when no one is looking. i'm sick of tearing my guts apart with cold thoughts.

i guess that means i'm sick of you, in theory. just haven't hit my toxicity yet. i wonder if slow exposure will make me immune to the venom? to the nauseating writing i churn out thinking about you... how i want to make everything shitty in your life better, yet i can't bring any joy into my own life.

another man would have kept me at bay, but i'm still within arms reach.

only that distance is everything between us.

everything between what i want and what you can tolerate.

the space that keeps me upright and dignified when i'm in your sights... the space that keeps me trapped in this stasis of want, longing and all that other sundry bullshit a million writers have described a million different ways. it's my cross to bear that Bukowski beat me to it... he'll always been the ugliest, the drunkest, the most unlovable son of a bitch... i can just admire and curse every time i put something down on paper and see that it's all been done before.