hello highly neglected blog...

I haven't been on this thing in months. I didn't have a reason too. I had a sounding board then, but the sounding board is gone and now I'm fumbling through heavy air looking for something substantial to lie my fears on, and this is all I could find.

I don't know why, but I keep thinking about that same damned frayed oriental rug. The one in my kitchen, with it's shades of yellow and coral. How many steps I've taken on it. Everything that's happened on that damn rug. But now I am the damn rug. Outdated and frayed, abandoned, and abused. But I don't want to be a victim. I hate being the victim. Despite the consequences I refuse to admit to being victimized. Victims are the people who didn't fight hard enough. I fought my hardest. I'm still fighting. Should I give up? Probably. Will I? Probably not. Love's a stupid indecisive thing. It fucks with your head, in so many ways. I hate it. I hate love. I hate to love anybody because there is always the chance that they will do exactly what has happened. Hurt me.

I've heard from multiple sources that I should leave. Leave everything I've gathered in my little basket in the middle of the road and hope a god damn truck runs over it. But I can't do that. I want to forgive. I need a reason to, I need something to fight for. But I want to so bad. I want someone to give me a reason to fight for them. I want someone to fight for me.

I can't think of your face without thinking about kong dog toys. You stuff all these disgusting things in them for bitches to lick out at their liking. It's a disgusting analogy but I've found particularly accurate in the past few days.

I can't think of your mouth without thinking about her tongue in it. And I can't think about her tongue without thinking about her tacky blue eyeshadow and smoke rings. And then I think about how beautiful she is. Yes, beautiful in a slutty disgusting way, but beautiful all the same. More beautiful than me. She exudes the kind of confidence I could never even muster. I never was exactly what you wanted I guess.

I love you. I hate that I love you. Because it makes me forgive you. And it makes me hurt. Physically hurt. Pain in my chest vomiting hurt. I hate it. And what I hate the most is that I can't hate you. I can't make myself hate you because I want you so bad.

And you don't want me.
you don't want me.
you don't want me.

I can't read you. I can stalk you all I want and read your twisted blog entries, hoping to find some kind of window into the extraterrestrial structure that has become your brain, but I walk away confused. And dissapointed. And heartbroken.

The heartbreak part comes in waves. but it's always there. Sometimes it takes the form of anger. Sometimes, the form of sickness. Sometimes, loss. But always, always, in the form of hope.

And that's the part that hurts the worst.