Communication

I don't communicate well.
I mean, I arguably write well, but that's not actually communicating.
I mean technically it is but this is actually proving my point.

You know I love. I love strongly and deeply and completely. There is not a person in my life who I don't feel some love for. Even the ones I hate. Especially the ones I hate.

I'm even in love with several of you. And it's all fake kisses and cowardice, bad timing and being the wrong person. It's fairies and butterflies watched through stolen eyes. It's angels made of earth and meat reached for with claws of bone but never touched. Souls dancing the most temporary and therefore beautiful of moments.

The above is an example.

We don't speak the same language you and I. I learned yours. I do everything in my power to do so. I try so very hard to. I generally do.

I've been told I'm hard to understand. That I don't talk or am passive aggressive. I've been made fun of for word choices or autoresponses I use. I'm not speaking your language. I can understand yours but I can't get you to understand mine.

Well... sometimes. Kind of.

My constant use of metaphors isn't an attempt at poetry. It's literally how I think.

It's entireties.

It's paradoxes.

It's fantasies.

Feeling and thought and metaphor and image aren't different. They're all a colossal web of intertwined meaning. It's madness and imagination crashing in waves. It's fear and love, pain and pleasure, joy and sorrow blended into a paste filling my skull.

But how do you translate that? So much of it is intuition and energy. It's spirits and goblins and golems. It's a fairy tale played out in real time. The reality of reality is sideways.

And you ask me to explain what that means. But you don't speak the language. You can't examine it with the lens require. How could you? How can I tell you the smell of your joy? How can I tell you the fire you ignite with simple words? How can I when you can't feel it burning in your hands?

I am Madness.

I am Shaman.

I am the construction of an age that never existed. I'm pieced together from pieces I've stolen from all of you. I'm welding together through naked will and a handful of poisons in tiny capsules on my shelf.

Talking can be hard. Because it takes so much energy to translate. And I prepare myself for every possible way you'll react. I'm never entirely right or entirely wrong. But it means I have hurt people. A lot.

I've ghosted.

I've cut deeper with silence then I ever could with knives.

I've come across as passive aggressive because I am so deeply frustrated with myself and my inability to process or communicate so I stop talking or ignore my own needs.

I hate it. But I can't really change it. I know cause I've tried. Gods how I've tried.

I wish I spoke your language.

I wish I could be what you need me to be.

But I am a hurricane in people clothes.

I'm a beast following smells.

And I don't communicate well.

Ramblings

I'm writing this purely out of jealousy.
A feeling that is generally so rare for me that I don't know what it feels like. It is not one of mine my prime motivators. It's something I generally have contempt for on the deepest possible level.

And yet... Here we are.

A dear friend wrote some pretty words. Two days in a row he wrote some pretty words, and as I read them I felt the words welling up in me.

But they are not pretty.

They are words about transmuted flesh and the severed hands of God.

They are rusted iron knives and axes made of stolen bone.

They are carapaces of jade hiding the madness bloated wreck of what should have been a heart.

They're words about love. About a play. About the pain and expense involved in survival.

I fell in love. As I usually do. Warm feeling slipping in the cracks in my armor. Someone who made me not just want to be but feel like a better person.

I wrote a poem for them. But I didn't show them. Not really. I threw it into the digital tide. I hurled it into the ether. Because I wanted them to see it, but I was too cowardly to show it. Something that should have been fake, was fake, had suddenly become terrifying, heart-wrenchingly real.

Love is easy. It's cheap and fast and overwhelms like the salt in those enlarged fries that you know you don't need but bought anyway. But you'll always come back. Cause you're hungry and love is food.

What's hard is everything else.

Logistics. Attraction. Relationship. Homemaking. Scheduling.

That's the rub. That's where it all falls apart. And the last one Compatibility.

That's the kick in the teeth. That's the severed hand of god.

They are earth and horse and flowers.

Whilst I am a hurricane of rusted metal and jagged bone crammed into a defective meatsuit.

I am ever so slowly exploding. I have little more to offer than madness and love. And that will never be enough.

And that's okay. It'll all be okay. Cause one way or another...

We're all just stardust in the end.