emotion

all this time,
I've been trying to describe something that I can't recognize,
something burrowing out of me from the inside,
cutting me,
I never know if I want to keep it in
or if I want to push it out
what is it

wednesday

Wednesday, day of the “I thought it was Friday,”

hulking over the rest of the week with its prideful boasting

and its incessant prompting,

“you’re not enough, you’re not enough, you’re not enough”

Wednesday knows just how to warm up the bed

so that you won’t make your train,

and especially takes time in the early morning to properly un-tidy your room.

Wednesday leads in with a “you can do it!”
and promptly exits with a “my work is done,” and a bow

after completely screwing you over.

Wednesday’s empty promises to tackle new projects

is battered down by the forgotten ghosts of Tuesday’s procrastination,

choking every hope you have of reaching some obtainable goal.

Wednesday brings stress in a basket and anxiety in a bottle to go with it,

the perfect combination to get you drunk on your own self-pity

and ruddy with mixed emotions.

He walks into the room with a smile, loud and deceptive,

setting himself down next to your desk, never to leave.

Wednesday swears in your ear and pinches your arm enough to leave a bruise,

reminding you of the money you’ve spent and the gifts you’ve yet to buy.

Just when you’ve had enough and you’re ready to holler every insult you can muster,

Wednesday goes ahead and hollers them for you,

screaming profanity and basking in his own filth,

twisting everyone’s words, tainting relationships, building barriers,

texting you insults and filling your day with disappointing realities.

Wednesday, champion of the week, top of the hump,

pushes you downhill towards Thursday with such force that your

ribs break, one by one, until you can’t breathe and you resign yourself

to the prodding and feel your cheeks wet with tears,

crying at your desk,

hating Wednesday.

throwing caution to the wind

I told myself I would write today. I told myself I would write but I'm distracted, so here I am, writing but not where I need to be, writing to untangle my emotional threads. Don't read this.
there's a lot I want to say to you, all the time,
a lot I have in my brain that swims around (and not aimlessly, mind you, it's careening towards you at an alarming rate), but I usually let the thoughts just swim until they capsize and drown, never quite reaching you.
I'm always afraid of everything--I'm always doubting myself, doubting you, doubting the situation, when at the same time I feel so sure when I'm looking at you that there's something important you have to tell me. Of course, maybe you already told me, you took care of it, but I never really told you the truth. I'm good at that, lying. When I want to be, at least. Sometimes I pretend to be bad at it, pretend to be bad at hiding my emotions because I simply want people to know how I'm feeling, if I'm angry, or frustrated, or painfully infatuated.
Maybe infatuated is the wrong word.
I don't know, what I'm trying to say is that I find everything about you interesting. No matter what it is you're telling me, no matter how tedious the topic, or however unrelatable, I think whatever you think is important is important. I love the way you take in information you think is useful, and then reverberate it all onto me or whoever just to remind yourself that you've learned something. I love that you like to solve problems. I love that you laugh whenever you want, and I love when you laugh at me, your eyes shining like they've found treasure. You're ambitious, passionate, sometimes kind of lazy.
Anyway, I guess I'm still jumping around because I don't want to say what I want, because I guess I don't know. Maybe I haven't told you because I already know the answer, but maybe I feel like I should just tell you anyway. You already know. This is word vomit. None of this is pretty, none of this is important, it's all just the space between my heart and my mind on the page trying to make sense of everything that's happened. Nothing has happened. Nothing will happen unless I make some grand gesture or unless you're not thinking what I know you're thinking.
It's pretty gutsy of me to post this, anyway. Nobody reads this but I mean, it's on a public page. If you were to get curious about me (heaven forbid) and actually look for me on any social media forum, this would be pretty accessible. I'm sure it's nothing you don't know.
I mean, what I want to say I guess is that something in me feels like I need you. And maybe it's just the idea of you, but I can't shake it and it confuses me that you don't feel it too. I don't know what I need you for, I'm pretty O.K. by myself. Take that how you will. It's late.

flutters

pop rocks stinging my tongue, I ask you, “have you ever..?” “don’t you think?” “when will you?”

snap, click, zing,

my stomach feels the same,

knotting and bubbling out my mouth,

searching for extra space it doesn’t have,

asking for permission to implode on some elastic whim,

overextending itself in excitement and confusion.

my breath swims in my chest like breezes shooting over ocean waves,

forcing itself out in hefty gusts that sound like laughter.

always laughing, tickled and prodded from the inside out,

something’s pulling me closer to you and it’s bothering me.

I keep asking it to stop, cut it out, knock it off,

but they’ve never been disciplined, my insides,

and my brain watches like a parent whose child has spiraled out of control

after consuming an entire bag of sugary snacks,

sighing because “she should know better,” and “what are we going to do about her.”

it’s not my fault, I tell myself, but the pressure between my eyes is telling me that it is,

and perhaps it’s me that creates this magnetism between souls,

pressing mine against another until he’s stuck like

the velcro bands on my shoe,

ripping off with a loud sound and then pressing back on again.

my fingernails scratch my face in some sort of strange reaction,

it’s itching me whenever I look at my phone,

am I psycho? I wonder

no, not that, but instead controlled by the gentle flapping of

millions of wings living inside me,

lifting me off the ground and begging me to escape,

to let them cover my skin in soft ethereal colors and flashing light,

to set me next to him in a haze of pollen and powder that covers us both,

-------------stop!------------------

I yell, sending them careening back into my diaphragm,

stop,

or else I’ll have to tell them about you.