Memorize your touch

“Touch has a memory.”

—	John Keats

I'm a kinesthetic learner and I learned your body well, the dips between your fingers, the ridges of your spine, the spot I bite to make your body curl into mine. Memories I'll never lose. Memories I'll never make again.

We have to laugh 'cause we're not alone

I almost asked you today if you'd found the purpose. The reason I've felt compelled to pray for you every day for almost a decade. Whenever I lost my faith, it never extended to jeopardizing you. But what the fuck is the purpose?

I once confided my fears about being nothing but actors on a stage to amuse God. Amuse and entertain as a whole, without concern for any individual but the rare stars. You had star potential. Remember when we were...yeah. (HA! Blue Sky just came up on random. Exact opposite of this post. Messed up my energy.)

I don't know what he wants from me and it's frustrating. How the hell do I know if I'm making the right choices or if there even is a better choice. I could sink into the most light and airy depression ever imagined. Opium dreams over painted skies. Piano étude on a loop behind my head. Fingers molding figures out of air.

I could say goodbye today and never know why we were here.



His daughter wasn't named Brianna. Did I make that up? A thousand precise facts and a single lie, to crack the plaster. Alabaster. Marble warming beneath my palms.


I don't know how to live in a world that doesn't obey the rules. this one's gonna bruise...

point your fingers to the sky but you'll never learn to fly

Your fears eat away at my soul. I'm too far away (physically? spiritually? emotionally?) to help. I have this burning need to make it right, to fix everything. But I don't have the tools or the skill and your heart will end up on thereIfixedit.com.

You think because I say nothing that I mean nothing and you mean less. Maybe......maybe that's true. But I know you'll be strong without me anyway.

Ignore me

Because it doesn't hurt. I know all about cycles and circles and roller coaster ups and downs. I know you'll come around then walk away all over again. I don't care that I'm desperate for your attention, licking your boots like a servant. It's pitiful and needy and I don't fucking care. It's an act too, just one I'm good at.

I wish I felt annoyed. Or ashamed or self-righteous. I wish I felt just a flare of misguided indignation.


But all I feel is ignored.

And what will I do when you learn to fly?

Just realized that in September she'll be 18 and he'll be 28. That means I get to stop worrying about them both, right?

Well I'll probably always worry about my Monster.

But does he believe in me?

Spencer's Swingers qoute sent me spiraling in self-doubt and loathing. What a strange reaction to a movie I love. But lately I feel trapped in an endless loop. Where's the fucking groundhog?

Just waiting for Lucky Man to signal the next phase. Dread at war with apathy. I can't care. Can't exist if I don't care. Another door, plz?

Finding God in the desert, seeking Him in troubled times is NOT the same thing as faith.

Empathy in tidal pools

I don't think I'm allowed in your journal anymore because you don't respond. Because you lay your soul bare and when I try to cover it up just a bit with protective words or gentle kindness, you pretend I'm not there. I don't want to intrude. I never know my own strength of annoyance. I always want to be helpful more than I actually am.

Destruction with the best intent. You'd be right to send me away. You'd be missing out on the beauty of me.

Sometimes I think there are rainbows inside me dying and withering because I won't let them burst through. Sometimes I wish I had more people in my life, more to love, people to physically and mentally interact with.

Then I realize, I barely tolerate the ones I have. What is wrong with me?

That's not rhetorical. Feel free to answer. I'm much tougher than I seem. And if you're anonymous, I'll reject your answer for malice. But if you're named, I'll inspect your words for truth and apply them to life's lessons.

Who am I kidding? No one ever finds this journal. By design, by contempt. Just a test but no one's searching.