YOUR WAY YOUR WAY YOUR WAY

I'll always be this way. "Battered and bruised". I hate the terminology, because I'm not in any way batter nor bruised.
I'm all over the place.
I'm so confused and understimulated, and I've been waiting for a while to be able to break out of the way and in to the pool of what I had always thought up.
I thought up all the wonderful and tragic and the sad and the thing about the whole reality of it is that it isn't true.
It isn't even real.
So why do I even use the word 'reality' to begin with?
It doesn't really matter, it matters what I mean, and in a coy and deceptive way, I convince myself that my intentions are pure evil, and I'm not as bad or shameful or inadequate as I sometimes lead on to be (and this is only a side note to myself, because I never had a thought when it came to you or others).
I was in the middle of a flat out badness, a sadness, when I closed my eyes and saw what I had.
And that was something blue, and something green, and something wooden, and something that I wanted so badly, something I didn't want at all, and something that I could feel again.
I couldn't stop that of which I had started, and I kept going.
I was feeling all the things that I told you on the last day.
And then you said it never happened.
It never happened.
And then you took it back again.
You took it back.
YOu took back what it was that you said that you took back that you had so openly excalaimed to me in the first place.
And then you apologized.
I was angry for a while.
I was gone for a while.
THen I was just okay.
I've had to rethink everything that I said.
I guess I miss you.
You said you missed me too.

I guess I can't really go on what anyone says.
I can't go on what I say.
And so I guess words don't mean anything to me.
Except they mean everything...

My Tendencies Usually Get Stuck

"When you think happiness
I hope you think that little black dress
think of my head on your chest
and my old faded blue jeans"

I have all these photographs, I guess I keep them to remind myself. My memories are the most damaging.
some said that they never knew me. Some say they'll never know me. I say we never had the chance.
It shouldn't be this easy to acquiesce, but here I am, just simply giving in. I went back for the first time, the first time in such a long time, those windows, and how I used to be behind them.
We said that it wouldn't be as long as we thought.
The whole concept, it's not what you're getting or understanding, and I don't think that I'll ever be able to put it together in my vague and frustrating organization, but I do believe that you could walk away with something, something real and tangible, from what I've said.
I can withstand any meeting required, any confrontation, because I did, and I don't mean that I want to again, but I didn't see something that day that I had always thought you had.
I keep dreaming, as much as I hate the word, whimsically dreaming (dreamily dreaming?) and sometimes it turns into a bright nightmare.
Because I find most of my comfort in the dark.
Yes, black, smoky, dark.
Cliched, boring, and skeptical as I may be about it, I miss it.
I love listening to what you thought.
For a while, I could hear your tactics, I could see my own, and I could smell in the air what was to come next.
I don't want to anymore.
Caring is so overlooked. What an underestimated emotion. Because I see now that even after you were knocked down again and again, you still had the care to get up, to live, and care about living.
but I understand why the pictures you drew are taken down now.
There's only so much care a person can have.
And after that, I understand the exhaustion.
In a strange, unannounced way, it's a sad thing to see you and me fade off, off into the field, off into the park, off into the cigarette smoke, off into the theater, off into your room, off past mine, and down the road, and in those double doors, and in class where I met you.
Where it started.
I guess it's appropriate though, isn't it?