I will write again, maybe, one day. When I can write a sentence without fearing that one person will see through my clever disguise of generalizations. When one person will be able to read the sentence "I do not love these people anymore..." and not translate, too fluently, "I do (not!) love you anymore. (really.)" When one person will be able to read what I put before me and think of it as something I believe fundamentally to be true, and not just some poetic representation of the lies I haved lived and the love I have lied for the one, the two, the many (the one) that got away. I will write again, perhaps, when I no longer live in the paranoia that that one person will think I truly am writing about everyone who I ever loved, everyone who I ever touched, everyone who I ever called "everyone", and not just one person. I will write when one person takes what I have to say at face value.

That one person turns out to be me.

Or at least, one of the "one person"s. I have to write in such riddles now that I can't fucking translate myself, and when I can, it's too clearly. You see what you were missing? Exactly.

Yet, one too many people have asked me recently if I am writing, and I have replied one too many times, "No, I am not." "Time" has been my excuse one too many times.


This whole fucking thing is more of a poem than a coherent thought. One of Kevin McPhee's shitty poems.




The stupid thing about women is that we truly believe in truth. We think that the solution to harboring countless hours' worth of heartaches is to go to our assailant and confess. We think that if loving someone makes us act like enough of an asshole that they don't love us back anymore, the grand and perfect way to remedy this is to tell them that the reason you're acting like an asshole is because of how much you love them!

This is such incredible genius SHIT! And I will now write a poem for it.


---

You loving me made me love you.
Me loving you made me do
What I wouldn't normally do.
And I acted irrationally
Like there was a rash on me.
And now you do not love me anymore.
And now my heart is sore.
And now my heart will pour:
I love you! That is why
I have sat and cried!
I love you! That is why
I have hurt on the inside!
I love you! That is why
I've stared up at the sky

And had the same appeal to you
As a Lifetime Movie Double Feature
You've made my skies blue
And I've become a leech-er.
I am a student of boo-hoo,
And you, you are my teacher.

So, please, love me like you did back then,
So we can do this all again.

---


See? Now, when someone asks if I've been writing, I can say "yes."

On with it.