*

Can't find it within me
to even lie anymore.
Just fighting my way throught this
biting
biting my way to the core.

I've found a liking
for the taste of my blood
the thumping of my heart
I've found
it's good to be me.

*

  I have made a promise to myself that I will write more. Be it here, be it elsewhere, with this name or another, I have resolved to write more. When I'm not writing I feel as if I lose sense of my self little by little. Like everything become's unreal and too distant, I feel even more of a spectator thaan I usually do, too much of an outsider in my own life.

  It's not exactly that writing helps me make more sense of things. It's just that I can always go back and pick up the train of though I had then,  a train of thought that is no longer, maybe I can understand who I used to be better, see where did things change, where I chose to turn a blind eye or where I was an obnoxious asshole (I would argue that I was, and am, often). It's also evidence in a way, memory is always distorted, and while what you write down is never the pure truth, it's part of it and that is the closest thing I can have to proof that those moments existed and they were not a daydream or a nightmare, or an idea when I drunk or high. I still catch myself wondering whether childhood memories are true or not. After all, repeat a story enough time to yourself and it will replace the actual event.

  Just in the same way that photographs replace our memory.

Parenthesis

Parenthesis.

I've always wanted to avoid that.

It's what I wanted to avoid

with you.

And just as I predicted

we fell in a loop

of unfinished bussiness

much too soon

much too easily

much too unnecessary.

It's like a conversation unfinished

I can only thank you

for putting 

a stop

to that.

It's much too sad to think about

too much of a pity

to have no room for conversation

with someone who electrified you.

I'm going to break my promise. 

Make sure that full stop stands.