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You set my skin on fire and make my pulse race and ruin my appetite. I can't talk or think or move because you pin me down and consume my mind and my body.
I ignore you. I try to ignore you. I think why bother? You will only be gone in the short passage of time and I will feel silly for paying so much attention to you in the first place. So I decide you can't exist, must not exist.
You are at every party. You spend time with everyone else, talking in their ear and shaping their experience and the next day I say who? When? I don't recall letting them in. But if I think about it I know you are responsible for the cups made empty by spilling in the corner on the floor and on the furniture and for clouding the judgment of other partygoers who drive home or to other places under the influence. Or you find me. You seek me out in the crowd and tell me your story immediately, insisting your opinions are correct and fact and before I have a chance to respond you disappear into the crowd and leave me speechless.
You are the child who demands attention and incessantly changes the rules of the game you create and want me to play but when it's time to set the table for dinner you are off alone playing and will not come to my aid.
I hate you. Because I fear you. I fear what you will make me, what parts of me you will shine light on, what you will reveal that I remain hidden to everyone else in the world including myself.
I break up with you, erase your name from my phones and my address books and e-mail inboxes, but you'll find me because I can't cut you out of my life but really maybe I don't want to either, I want to be found. I want to be seduced by you.
So we sleep together and you share my bed but also my brain and won't let go, whispering for hours, but instead of listening I turn up music and television and voices of others and you slink away or so I tell myself.
But you always come back and I let you back in but not really because if I just listened to you, if I just paid you some attention, if I just let you be me for one minute or five minutes and realize that letting you drive the car doesn't make you the owner, then you'd go away, you'd be in my rolodex along with the hundreds of others who come and go freely through the doorway and I trust when they enter they will exit and they do. But when I bar the door of you because I fear you'll never exit, then you never enter, you always hover outside knocking on windowpanes and it's a self-fulfilling prophecy as you won't leave until your job is done.
You've knocked on the glass for years and perhaps those moments of absolute neurosis and panic come because I've allowed that rap-rap-rapping to continue over and over and over for years and maybe, just once, I'll let you in and sit you down and say, 'yes, I know you'll go away, but that doesn't mean I shouldn't listen to you in this moment.'
I ignore you. I try to ignore you. I think why bother? You will only be gone in the short passage of time and I will feel silly for paying so much attention to you in the first place. So I decide you can't exist, must not exist.
You are at every party. You spend time with everyone else, talking in their ear and shaping their experience and the next day I say who? When? I don't recall letting them in. But if I think about it I know you are responsible for the cups made empty by spilling in the corner on the floor and on the furniture and for clouding the judgment of other partygoers who drive home or to other places under the influence. Or you find me. You seek me out in the crowd and tell me your story immediately, insisting your opinions are correct and fact and before I have a chance to respond you disappear into the crowd and leave me speechless.
You are the child who demands attention and incessantly changes the rules of the game you create and want me to play but when it's time to set the table for dinner you are off alone playing and will not come to my aid.
I hate you. Because I fear you. I fear what you will make me, what parts of me you will shine light on, what you will reveal that I remain hidden to everyone else in the world including myself.
I break up with you, erase your name from my phones and my address books and e-mail inboxes, but you'll find me because I can't cut you out of my life but really maybe I don't want to either, I want to be found. I want to be seduced by you.
So we sleep together and you share my bed but also my brain and won't let go, whispering for hours, but instead of listening I turn up music and television and voices of others and you slink away or so I tell myself.
But you always come back and I let you back in but not really because if I just listened to you, if I just paid you some attention, if I just let you be me for one minute or five minutes and realize that letting you drive the car doesn't make you the owner, then you'd go away, you'd be in my rolodex along with the hundreds of others who come and go freely through the doorway and I trust when they enter they will exit and they do. But when I bar the door of you because I fear you'll never exit, then you never enter, you always hover outside knocking on windowpanes and it's a self-fulfilling prophecy as you won't leave until your job is done.
You've knocked on the glass for years and perhaps those moments of absolute neurosis and panic come because I've allowed that rap-rap-rapping to continue over and over and over for years and maybe, just once, I'll let you in and sit you down and say, 'yes, I know you'll go away, but that doesn't mean I shouldn't listen to you in this moment.'
