Mary Jane's Diary

On + Off

1/27/19

I feel everything.

Fuck.

I am electric. Drenched in madness, just like she says. On and off again.

My heart flutters in my chest, and my breath comes up short, but not in an uncomfortable way. Take is sad. That makes me sad. It makes me sadder that he's sad about a girl who isn't me. He always makes me sad, and I don't think he even knows. He'll never know how much he has an affect on me.

I still think about Ghost from time to time, and I don't know why. I think I'm choking on my emotions, but I can only feel them in my chest. I'm still smiling.

My sadness makes me laugh.

Another hit. Puff, puff, pass.

I miss Mistake, but I don't know in what capacity.

You're gone, but you're on my mind.

Fuck. Do you talk to your mother like that? Hell to the yes I do.

The flick of the lighter, the contrast of the flame against my white sheets. Smoke envelopes me like a dear friend. I close my eyes, and I breathe her in. The smell of patchouli and skunk is ripe in the air. Sex. My dear friend, I miss  you.

Did you mean it when you said I was pretty? 

I always wonder who thinks about me? Is it you? Sadly, I am the person who thinks about me the most, but am I anyone's Take? I think there are two types of people in this world. There are the people who think about other people, and there are the people who are thought about. That's it, and I am not a person who is thought about. It's easier to accept it with a laugh than to bathe in the thought, but alas I sink into the sludge of that dark thought. It consumes me, and suffocates with it's tar sticky against my gums.

Drums start playing. A rhythmic sound. Someone jangles bells, and a half naked woman dances amid the smoke in my mind. Lights. Everywhere. Deep bass tones slither through my ears. He touches me, and I shiver. Static. Static. Static. Come back down to my knees.

Break through the smoke.

Break.

Break.

Brake.

Skrrt. A child cries, and all I can see is a cherry red fire hydrant. My eyes burn. That kind of red that makes your eyes tear up, but only slightly. The same way a quick slap would. It stings, and you have been hit, but you will not cry. You are too strong.

Puff

Puff

Pass.

I'm good.

She's not. An ad interrupts this world I have created for myself.

A gun shot. I can feel my thoughts. They are shifting the world around me. I am a time traveler through my own mind. Would you mind riding with me? That's what I thought. I only write because I'm a narcissist, and screaming into the void does nothing to get me off. I want people to love me, my words. We all want something along those lines, and to say otherwise is a fucking lie. We all get off on the idea of someone wanting us.

We all just want to be wanted.

This is why sex is so fucking addicting. I feel like a sorceress, a siren, someone from the legends in the bedroom. I can make you scream. I feel your nails in my skin. It burns, and I hiss. Our bodies betray us. My dear friend. Sex.

Get me off.

You know what to do.

She stares at me from her frame about my lotion. She wants to be free, but how can I get there from my own frame? I melt into my bed. I am nothing but molecules buzzing. Can you hear me?

A Hawaiian shirt is all I need. Someday, I will only wear Hawaiian shirt, and tinted sunglasses with a blunt keeping my hair out of my face on its perch, my ear. Until then.