why am i so good at this

these jokes where i’m the punchline

as i lie on this fucking floor

wishing for the words to come.

only silence

cold, clean tiles

and bubblewrapped angels

where the butterflies used to be.

i was right i suppose

about that whole not forcing words shit

but goddamn

the irony is a bit ludicrous.

—“Adversus solem ne loquitor.”

—don’t speak against the sun.

i don’t even remember where i heard it

but still:

what a crock of shit.

i see you up there.

so well played god; well played.

you win this round.

you fuck.

That drive, that burn , that feeling inside, if you can describe it or not, isn't something you can hide. You know you've got something that you've contemplated on so hard your body has to abide? Appears you have an itch, you can't quite scratch, and if you do it burns you 'til you're dead dry. A few of them I can mention, some more than others with a quickness, would be as honorable mentions : A pool game where the 8 ball is your target, that burn you got from that intercourse that was a little rough on the carpet, when you go through the decision to have a child and ensure it's lifespan, that cast iron skillet with iron wool, obviously goddamn! Then there's the fever that could be legitimate that keeps you from work, or the fact that they give you two days and expect you to be perked up. A few others, lest I forget, dementia, lunacy, and being a heretic. Ah, but the rabbit hole is deeper! The itches come stronger, the scratches become fewer but sweeter! Death...not much to say about that one, life, well it's hard to scratch once you've got one, you go on (or don't). A book that you read, when you're the final chapter, responsibility for planning anything when it in turn becomes a disaster. Oh, a mess, oh I'm a mess, yes I insist, the itches that I can't scratch are predominant when I become distressed, but it's all in jest , because the reality is just fine : the itch is a synapse, controlled by your mind.

When you get butterflies in your stomach so much it makes you want to scratch them out so bad it hurts.

No matter how much you twitch and squirm they don't go away.

You try and try to catch them and put them in a jar but there's to many they just keep coming.

So in the end it's impossible to scratch them out so you deal with them and just wait for them do die.

I don't feel the sting.

But it's there.

A few minutes later, I feel that itch in a particular place.

Dammit.

I can't scratch that, can I?

I'm squirming around in discomfort, the itch growing horribly itchy, until I just can't stand it any more.

"Mummy, I have an itch."

"Alright, scratch it then."

"B-But I can't!"

Sigh. "Deal with it."

Stupid itches that can't be scratched.

Stupid mosquitoes.

The only itch I could never scratch

Was the itch of wanting you.

My mom always told me, "you cannot help how you feel, but you can always help what you do about that feeling."

You were wrong for me in so many ways

But it felt right

You were never what I had dreamed of

But it felt like a much better dream

You would never love me

But in the moment you looked at me.. I felt... I knew I could love you forever.

But I wouldn't.

You are the itch I can't scratch

So I won't even try.

A heart as fortified as mine

Could never reach a heart as free as yours.

-AshleyAnne