Too Weird to Live

If given words, I am armed with my best.  Or so I should hope.  But words entangle me in a mess messier than any….traditional mess.  I’m trying to communicate and be precise to those I know well.  I think I’m trying too hard, and it shows.  And I see it, as well.  It kills when it shows.  It kills me too. 


I know what I meant.  I visualized the concept.  But I forget and often am left with the guilt of the forgotten.  So easily, I am portraying myself as upset.  As crazy.  As nonsense, or as lazy.  I have my image of me.  But dozens exist to serve as misrepresented reflection in the stare and glare of other beings I cannot touch.  This is truly why intimacy is so valued.  It really is rare, I’m convinced, to be on the same page as your neighbor.  To know me or to know anyone, you have to expertly break into the mirrored world of the one you wish to possess.


I wish to possess many at this hour.  I want to become one with the soul and speak without fail.  And know what they know.  The most trying of all tasks.  Am I a good gal?  Will I be remembered with a collective lie?  What is the truth anyways?  Let me run this circle until I die. 


I want to break the mirror.  Into a thousand pieces and I feel much bloodshed will come of it.  I want to display all that I am to all that I see.  But that’s no good either, now is it?  I give away too much and quickly I’m not good enough.  Writing as I do is probably fair give away.  It’s a decently advertised clue. 


I’m a weirdo and I want to be weird with you. 



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