Rambly

[danaeris]

When I look at you, I know what I should see. And that's half the problem, I suppose. I don't see you. I don't know if I ever will.

Half the time, you're my goddess, but the other half? You're my demons. And the kicker is, I never know which half it is.

Yesterday, I filled the bath tub with water so hot I could barely take it. I stepped in without bothering to shed my clothes, layers of pretense and all.

The water seeped into the clothes, much the way you seeped into me. I let it happen, let the clothes soak, just as you soaked me with your dreams, your charisma, your loving indifference.

And once there, it would not have been much further to do it. To simply lie down, watching bubbles rise to the water's surface as I exhaled the vapour which was no longer any good to me. Maybe that's the way to exorcise you: to drown tasting Mr. Bubbly Bubble Soap, surrounded by fucking rubber duckies.

I thought about it. I did. I asked myself what you would want -- because that's what a headcase like me asks herself, isn't it?

Of course, that's when that bratling of a cat started whining. Something about wanting more food, I don't doubt.

Maybe tomorrow. Or the day after that. Maybe that will be our day.

Moody today. I think I forgot to take my meds yesterday, and that's why I was so fucking dizzy. Which would explain the odd moods today, alternating from bouncy to irritable to downright melancholy. What, you couldn't tell?

I feel like I do when I write copious amounts of poetry. Speaking of which... marius23, harlequinaide, you guys asked AGES ago if I want my poetry critiqued. The answer is: definitely not. I have perfectionist issues. Poetry is the one area I have deliberately NOT developed as a skill so as to keep it as a medium for pure self-expression and creativity; even so I have issues with the imperfection of it.

Of course, this entry isn't REALLY poetry. It's short form prose, half way between fiction and poetry, but qualifying as neither. So, do as you will.