You left me staring into the face of autumn alone. Elipses trailing behind you, never looking back.
I inhaled the sharp cold winds that had been spreading over the current week that I forever dwell over within annually.
Although I say summer is my favourite, or sometimes Autumn, the cold of the winter winds that slice my ribs and leave prickly scars is what makes me feel at home.
I've been banging through this increasingly cold dying world, bruises marking mistakes and long nights, fuzzy with black patches of overly loud and unnecessary laughter.
Too loud and daring for me, overflowing onto his smile, drowning his own laughter out of audible planes.
But it is mine.
But I'm above the me that is laughing watching her let her body relax, disgusted with the shape of those arms and that core.
My right hand always flies up too late to pad the mouth shut with a light touch. The too tightly clutched thin lipped me stares at the loud television, focusing hard past the moving coloured shapes as I float down.
These weeks have drawn together and there's talk of winter festivities.
And no words from you.
I think you saw I was wrong. In all ways, I suppose.
Those voices will probably never go away, you told me.
It made me want to scream at you.
Right in your face.
Those voices inhabit all of your heads, you hypocrites. Why am I the only one who points them out in public?
Why do I not refrain from quieting those voices when they invade my voice with an unstoppable force?
But people think they're brilliant words, spilling from my over worked mouth.
What an odd thing to say, they'd laugh with me, of course you'd think of such things.
As if that was the proper way to think of such common place oddities.
Especially for me.
Because those voices quibble loudly where you can't hear, where I can feel them audibly vibrating inside my head.
I pipe up and am immediately hushed.
I think of the voices you told me about that you argue with.
We don't talk the same anymore, I let us grow distant. You admit, defeated, over our black and white discussions. I don't know what to say to make you stay, but stay at the distance we've always held so perpetually parallel. Where I'm cold enough to keep shrinking while I pick at your words and make you snarl so you can't see what's really going on.
But you wanted to cross our lines.
You wanted to wrap your darker skin around my bare, translucent ghost like being.
My overly large parts I say need to be sliced off with a butcher knife, I could sew myself up, I add distinguishably, factually to you.
I name off bones and muscles and joint types and names of the smallest bits of me.
You say you would hold me.
With that dark hair and those heavy eyes, you say are boring. Not like yours, you seem to be in wonderment of these spotlighted things.
They change, blue, dark blue, green, grey, flickering between them all, whenever I stare at that blonde girl in those pools of still opposites.
She turns to the left, right, tip toeing on her short legs to see a merciful glimpse below her waist in the high mirror.
Our eyes meet again. She looks blank, I feel the gap rip open.
I realize yet again we don't know each other.
I realize I'm not familiar with the way her face contorts, in what seems a way too unannounced fashion.
I thought that was more of a smile, scrutinizing the whole of this surface.
I stare at her accusingly and tell my voices they must shut the hell up. I must be so plain. He says I'm so predictable and laughs with that smile.
Like he knows me oh so well. He's quite pleased with himself when he watches those phalanges shake and announces there's no nutrients, your muscles are eating themselves and you almost fell over again.
But you were drunk so he's not that worried.
But you're not even close enough to be good enough. Not even close enough to anything wrong, you're just pathetic.
I want to tell you it was actually me, driving you madly insane in love & realizing my foolishness for letting any of you fantasize a stable, solid future with such a creature as myself.
I think about something for so long and hard, turning it this way and that in my head that it eventually happens, with out me actually doing anything.
And when it gets close, I realize it's not as neat and orderly and planned as I had wanted, it's a mess.
I throw a temper tantrum and I want order.
I want things to go the way they are supposed to and I want you to god damned listen to me instead of pushing your words further into this capsule of memories on these too-wide shoulders that you shake in anger.
It was actually me in your head saying, that girl, those thoughts she has are pretty strange.
Who wishes to slice their skin open and see the gleaming, pink insides, plucking at tendons like piano strings and holding bones as if they were the railings holding her up on the fun-house stairs that turn into slides much too quickly.
I hold the bones of the tops of my hips hard. Indenting my fingers, through what seems to be my skin, but is merely a mashing of fingers and skin, and yellow fat postules that must go.
This winter will be cold, she digs her sharp nails into my sides and shakes me softly at first, growing increasingly faster and harder than I can control.
This winter will be long, with hard winds and stinging wet bites on my uncovered face.
This winter will drive me into an oblivion.
It will be dark and house bound, unless I can find proper clothes to trapse around in with my camera.
I will pick more fights. He keeps begging for the admittance of my knowledge that he's not leaving, nor ever breaking this off unless I do first.
I just want to see how far I can push, because, in all honesty I know it's better.
I'm not a downer, I'm not pessimistic, I'm realistic. And logical, for you all.
If you did not have me to save you from, us, to be honest, then you'd all fall.
Down, down to the ground.
Ashes and all.
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