The Hoplite

one

"... like a cat, I never know when to touch you"

11/09/2022

I am scared so I bite. And hard. I bruise, I don't tear the flesh, but dear God, do I bruise. 

Ever since I've met you, I've been changing. Forever morphing, forever Morphine. Love the tension, I love the drop. I am dog-like, so I stay for you. I'll stay put, but don't act surprised when I am off the moment it thunders. I am a storm, I am the dog. I am fucking  Goethe for you. I write, and I rejoice in it. I wanna be your Sean Bonnette. The one who got away, the one who stayed, I need all of it. This collarbone(a necklace) is new and shiny. You bought it for me. You buy me things to show me you love me, even though we're both broke. It's weird and it's okay. You make me feel bad about it, but I know you understand.

I don't bite. I don't bite at all, because I'm scared. I'm still only ever forming bruises.

You go to college, work, hit the town and I write. You are everyone I've ever met. And loved, hated, felt, hit, made out with, spoke to... You know I have to, so I don't die. We work like that, it's symbiosis, simple and unchanging. I like it when you drive me around, doing nothing, sometimes we're quiet. I want to make you feel comfortable like that, but I'm scared of driving. I never told you this, so you haven't read it. I miss you when you're away, and I'm happier when you're home. Everything I say feels too simple, and nothing will ever be enough. I know good writing, and I know bad, but I can't place mine into the equation. I want it to be good, so badly, but it will never truly feel good, will it? I find I am very good at rambling. Not speaking or talking. I am horrible at holding myself together, flowing through my own hands like sand. They say the art of conversation is something one can learn, but I don't believe that to be true. I ramble. I say nothing, while giving away everything. Dislocated at the shoulder, never really feels right. I am someone and it matters at the end of the day, but only in the sense of it being utterly insignificant.

I will say more when I'm sad again. You're away and I'm always tired. See you again, tomorrow or maybe next week. I have yet to grasp the way Sadness migrates inside me. Maybe control it with medication. I haven't decided yet. We're trapped together inside a small body (the Sadness & I). The teeth are bad and the bones tired. Young, so young, and driven by emotion we're centuries old.