Clock Hands

Correct Me if I'm Wrong...

But excuses are bullshit. When there is a will, there is a way, and the more we make excuses for ourselves, the less productive we become. Many times there is the hope that someone else will pick us up when we have fallen, but is it not unfair to expect that from someone else? To just not think, oh, if I do not do this, then the bills won't be covered. Yeah, you would hope, but no. I apparently find myself into situations where this is so normal to do to others that it is appalling to me.  

I love it when someone says they "love you" but then they do things to hurt you. Trust issues inside of me tell me that I am fully right here, but I know I am not. I know that I have to give people chances to be different from the past, but it is so fucking hard to do so when they do the same things as all of the others. You see the similarities in their movements and their drive and their tenacity for getting the ball rolling on certain endeavors and it makes you think. It makes you wonder.

I feel so sick to my stomach. I feel like I am going to consistently be used and have everything taken from me as it always happens when I start to feel love and to give myself to someone else. Maybe I should be alone... I don't know anymore. 

I crave human affection and the knowing that someone is there, but I always get hurt and I don't know what pain is worse anymore: being alone or being used. I never seem to find the in between of that, and I don't know if I was made to be on this Earth for companionship. Maybe the loneliness is supposed to drive me to create or discover something great. I will always be alone, but at least I made a dent into the world, right?

Or is it that I am supposed to be used because there is a place on earth for everything and maybe that is the gear piece of this machine that I fit in. Sounds pretty miserable, and I do say, I hate the sound of that, but what if that really is reality? Sometimes, the magic in the stories is not meant for everyone. Sometimes it only reaches those it was meant to reach. I feel like I am the villain with memory loss because I do not know what I did wrong to become this way, but I know I am here to stay as it keeps happening and has not stopped.

I've done all I can to try to break this. I'm a weeping willow with broken branches and chunks of trunk missing. I am the rusted car with the tires and rims stolen, set up on parking blocks as the eye sore of the run down town. I am the broken bed frame on the front lawn, waiting to be disposed of. I am the half eaten ice cream cone, left to melt on the sidewalk.

I feel like I take up space, but there really is no reason for me to be there anymore. I want to be happy, I have moments like yesterday where I was seeing the good in so much but now things have felt like they're ripping apart, and I haven't quite finished taping them back together. The tape isn't strong enough and I am running low, and there is way too much work to be done and not enough time and I am soaring out of control, about to land in the middle of the Atlantic. Mayday, mayday, someone please save me.

But no one comes. The cycle repeats itself and I am in this hell that has not felt like home in decades. Two decades have passed, and I have not been happy. I got five, almost six good years, and everything fell the fuck apart.

I got taken from my mother, my father was still seeing her on the side to do drugs together. He missed a lot of my important school events and sports games. He would stumble home drunk and fucked up to the attic, his den, whenever he would come home, if he came home. I watched and waited, but the spark never returned to his eyes, and my mother was too fixated on herself and her demons to see I was crying for her to come visit me and to see me and to want to be around me. Every time she would come around, however, it would be "Give me money" "I need this" "Fuck you fat fuck" that to my Dad.

That shit leaves scars. I hurt. I fucking feel abandoned all of the God damn time and I want affection. I want someone to see into me and to pull me out of this fortress of solitude because if I did not build it then I would have died sooner and not be writing this now. I wear my armor tight to my skin and it never comes off. I sleep and shower in it. I have sex in it. Someone look through me and reach me, I beg of you. Please don't make me feel like I'm all out here alone. I feel so fucking alone.

No one does. I find people who get close and then I am used up before I know it, and left back down again, picking up the pieces in armor that is too tight for my skin anymore.