i can still smell you on me.
but the smell is fading. faded.
the smell, your smell reminds me of you. of days when it was less complicated. days when i didn’t want, when i didn’t need more.
days when i was content wasting time talking to you. discussing music and books. listening to the playlist you made me.
it has washed off of me now. and i don’t think i will ever get it back.
but i crave that smell. I need it.
a time when nothing made sense, but everything made sense.
now it is a puzzle. unsolvable.
i wish that i could take it back. but i know, if given the choice i would still love you.
and nothing would change.
and once again my choices betray me.
you want me but you don’t.
you wont let me go but wont ask me to stay.
you ask me to stay but only when you know that I can’t.
you want me. but only so no one else can have me.
you drag me down this path of deceit with you. you want me. But for all the wrong reasons. Not for who i truly am.
you won’t let go of me. even though you need to.
you won’t set me free.
you want me.
but you don’t love me
you desperately cling to me. unable to give me up.
but you don’t love me. No matter what you say.
you know better. you have to know better. but despite that, you won’t let me go.
I am messy. I am dysfunctional. I am fucked up. But I only let you see the pieces that I’ve carefully crafted. The pieces that I want you to see.
you think you’ve seen my messy,destructive behavior. you think you know all about me. and you think you love it all. But you don’t. All you see is a manipulation. An image pieced bit by bit together to give you what you want, what you crave. an arranged construction.
everything you see is a projection. none of it is real. a blueprint of your innermost desires.
and to you, I’m just an innocent. just a girl. a girl that you enjoy corrupting.
But you are wrong. I am a fucking woman. And you have no clue what you’re dealing with.
And with a woman, you don’t realize until it is too late.
I am color. almost real. just a trick of light and your perception.
without you, i am colorless. i am nothing. when you look at me, i become real.
but all i really am is a reflection of light. simply vibrations. and without you there to witness it, i do not exist.
All things are subject to interpretation whichever interpretation prevails at a given time is a function of power and not truth.
I suppose cliches happen for a reason.
Like they are relateable. Like they happen time and time again.
So here I am being predictable and cliche, writing about grass being green. Usually when it is on the other side.
Once it is gone, I miss it. For years, it was watching over my shoulder…pushing me to pull me closer. And I resented it. I was fearful of it. I repeatedly held back, pushing it away. And now, all I want in the world is to hold it so tight and never let it go.
And now that it is gone I miss it. I only appreciate it now that it is gone. What a damn cliche.
“The reason that clichés become clichés is that they are the hammers and screwdrivers in the toolbox of communication.”
― Terry Pratchett, Guards! Guards!