בית קברות למחשבות

my pale right hand lays
harbored between your thumb and forefinger.
our bodies have melted together, as they do.
we have a sequence:

you grab my left shoulder and pull me firmly towards you, I gently oblige.
I tuck my hair under my left ear and away from your face.
you pull me closer still, wrapping my body in your right arm, placing me in your lap and squeezing me into your chest.
I moan, satisfied. you moan, satisfied.
your lips near my right ear finally whisper,
לילה טוב.

often you'll fall asleep before I do.
the loss of your consciousness in my room-sized world pangs me with a little sadness, every time.
another day gone, and I'm alone.

on this particular night, a slight deviation from routine has taken the form of one hand nestled in another, and all of my awareness is focused on it.
I think, in my weed haze, that maybe the faint pressure of your two fingers on my wrist means that I am not alone.
I take comfort in that thought, and soon I am asleep.

you need to go. I have so many thoughts running through my head, I say, that I wrote a poem while we kissed.

recite it to me, he requests.

I want you to go because I care about you.

I want you to stay because I care about me.

but, is caring about you not caring about me?

then, go.

he answers without missing a beat, you missed the part where caring about yourself is in fact caring about me too.

because

I want to be with you.

- so which one of us do you like better? hypo me or depressed me?

- I have no way of answering that question. they're both you. they make up who you are as a whole. and I like you.

when I dream it feels like I'm hallucinating,

and when I'm awake it feels like I'm dreaming.

everything is too much, all the time.

but you're a dream I don't want to wake up from, even when you're too much.

I'm heavy and light. I'm happy and scared. I want more and I can't take what I already have.

it's beautiful. it's tragic.

ועושה סקס חשוף ומובך,

וזה ממש בסדר,

כי הייתי נוכחת והייתי אני והתחברתי (כמה שהצלחתי).

נתתי לו מקום ונתתי לי מקום (כמה שהצלחתי נו בסדר לא מושלמת).

ואולי אין לי למי לומר את זה עכשיו, אבל לומר לעצמי זה מספיק.

אני גאה בי (:

I feel too much.

אחד

יודעת שיחבק.

שיבין, כי נפשו פצועה כמו שלי.

אבל הוא כנראה ירצה יותר משאוכל לתת.

השני

הוא הבעיה הפעם,

והמטען גדול מהיכולת לתקנו כעת.

זה טרי מדי.

השלישי

לא רוצה בי מאז ששברתי את ליבו.

ואיני רוצה לעשות זאת שוב.

הרביעי

חדש, ועוד אין לי אמון בו.

יש תחושה שהוא באמת רואה אותי, וזה מפחיד.

החמישי

לא מתגורר בארץ כלל.

השישי 

כבר לא רלוונטי מזמן,

למרות שאני מתגעגעת אליו מאוד.

הוא לא באמת אופציה.

השביעי

הוא קצת כמוני, ולכן עצוב בעצמו.

אני מפחדת שיפגע בי.

השמיני...

סביבי המון מקורות תמיכה.

באמת המון.

אבל אף אחד שאני בוחרת בו לחיבוק.

ובאיזשהו אופן זה אפילו יותר בודד מאשר להיות ללא מקורות תמיכה כלל.

I have a fear of living

so frightfully wrong,

that whole years of my life are worth less

(but never worthless, of course).

To discover that

since I started dating,

I've been, almost consistently,

giving myself away

to the highest bidder -

that I've been

passed around,

used,

mocked,

taken,

loved,

hurt -

that I've floated through life

agreeable -

Rationalizing out of my fucking mind.

Dissociating.

Because I know what it feels like to be loved.

But I don't remember how to love.

see me, feel me, touch me, heal me

i guess i must have been on edge and not noticed,

because the second you pick up,

i fill with rage.

this withdrawal from weed (and tobacco) is making me crazy.

I don't even know why i'm angry,

but the longer we talk,

the worse it all gets.

i try to be reasonable but all i can manage is overly emotional honesty.

i don't think it's helping much.

we hang up.

i hate myself.

i'm missing my usual mental crutches (weed) so i drink instead.

i wish you would just come over.

you have the key.

don't say a word, just come over, come inside.

maybe even hurt me a little.

maybe more than a little.

and then fuck my brains out so i can stop thinking.