aresnt

[aresnt]

have a sip of water

[aresnt]

sleep, my love. you can’t go on very much longer on 4 hours of sleep a day.

you’re so ugly when you’re awake. not because you’re unattractive inside nor out.

simply because the weight of the world doesn’t match the color of your worn down old man shoes, passed down by the last bit of anchorage you knew before the world decided you were ready to move on.

simply because you couldn’t find safety anywhere besides your never ending brain fog you surround and contain with flashing lights and violent screaming. it’s funny, because sometimes the sounds on the television sound a little bit too close to the sound of your soul. that same soul is confused. ‘how did we get here? why am i so tall? when did my voice get so deep? mom.. i’m scared.. anybody..’.

simply because you’re astonishing. miraculous. an angel. when you’re asleep, your consciousness slips somewhere else, placing boards behind your eyes to prevent you from seeing what it has to do in order to go on another day.

you’re so childish. so naive to believe you’re okay when you can’t see your dreams, blaming it on any bit of science you can fluff your pillow with to shield yourself from what may come next. the repressed memories support your neck so well you can’t help but to get so excited for the next time you get to take another break. there’s something else though. there always is. the anxiety that breaks you apart constantly checking every nook and cranny to ensure you’ve done everything you’re supposed to that day, but the nooks and crannies are never ending.

it’s time for bed now. you can’t clean forever, you’ll kill yourself trying. it’s okay, lay your head on my chest and listen to my heart. it beats the same as yours. i’ll hold you, still as can possibly be to ensure all prevention of tearing your delicate skin. i may be delicate, but with enough even pressure, the group of nails fail to pop the balloon that holds the priceless diamond it hides from the storm.

dream your dreams and tell me about them when you wake up. i’ve been yearning to meet little you.

-ac

[aresnt]

harsh words that pierce your skin like a poorly armored medieval soldier moments away from being impaled, and jokes that start off harmless, but in the end dissolve into the creation of being yet another ass of a joke.

your best friend who wasn’t supposed to be your best friend, but wrapped themselves around you like a boa constrictor starving and ready to feast on its freshly caught prey, forcing you in the end to be their best friend or their next meal.

i yearn for you, i cry for you, i toss and turn and i groan and i ache, and these brittle bones of mine continuously fighting to support my limp shell that’s been beaten and battered down, simply for the bare reason being to ensure your needs are met.

perfect. quiet. sheltered. untouched.

you wanted me to be every single one of those things, yet i can’t even take the letters our of each of those words to spell your first name let alone your first, middle, nor last name. i’d be able to mumble half, drooling helplessly off my lips, leaving nothing but a whimper, but the name you chose for me, i’d only be able to get out the last grin of the e.

you wanted me to be better. you hated yourself so much that you couldn’t bare the thought of looking at your own reflection let alone a second version of yourself. the relentless photoshopping to cover up the pain stenciled on your skin knowing you can’t fix it. any of it.

you needed a best friend, someone to be normal with.

i needed guidance, but all i had was a best friend.

-ac

[aresnt]

“what do you want to do?”

what do i want to do… there’s so many things to choose from

well, we could paint. there’s so many colors to choose from, and so many more you can create with what you’re already given. a brush so thin capable of making the same shape and shade as a wide brush, yet so very capable of creating shapes and patterns and tones others are not capable of. the smell of fresh paint touching the canvas, chalky in all ways sweet and smooth, slowly sweeping with each stroke into a rough pull of paint thinning off your bristles, leaving nothing less than a visualization of one’s reality - the only proof we exist. our own reality and a little drop of paint.

no, we shouldn’t. our backs will ache, and we’ll fall victim to sorrow of incapability of recreating something we live every day, therefore incapable of proving your existence.

we could go for a walk. oh, how lovely it is outside. a day long yearned for after months of quiet, solemn winter. the sun high in the sky, finally awaken from the long slumber almost as if it had lay deceased after a reoccurring war with the moon, fighting for dominance of earth, the way seagulls fight for a cracker thrown by a young couple at the beach. the warmth of the rays engulfing my body, as if swallowing me whole, filling the voids i had thought would never see light again. a sweet breeze tickling my neck, like being caressed for the first time ever, chills and goosebumps. exhilarating. all to be summed up with the sweet harmony of birds so excited to let the world know they’re awake, and they exist.

ugh, the thought makes my leg ache. they burn and twist, and i do all i can to resist the urge to remove my armor and unsheathe my vulnerability to any deity or dogma i once begged mercy from. my last chance to prove my existence with the evidence of my worth.

let’s just watch a movie. i’m tired, and my brain is moving at a million miles per hour. i’ve spent too much time creating all these scenarios in my head that i’ve run out of fuel, and i’m left with nothing but a constant headache that never seems to slip away. the sound of tv static mixed in with the sound of voices of people constantly criticizing my creation. my safe haven constantly fighting for the sake of its occupiers with nothing but a foam sword left by the last bit of dust my inner child could preserve for the sake of my memory. maybe just another creation, but a creation nonetheless. that exists, right? the people, they exist.. dont they? their criticism just as justified as war plaguing our planet like a mutated virus kicking the bucket out from under the weak and helpless. weak and helpless.

weak and helpless..

is this it? too tired to fight for your proof of existence, at the same time too tired of not existing to not fight? a constant battle. time. reality. existence. evidence. preservation of what little people are left with before they’re ripped out of existence, just to be re-placed in another life, just to fight for the same proof, because there’s nothing else capable of comforting you than that proof. soft, reassuring words have turned meaningless and you begin to mute that out. showering doesn’t make you feel better anymore, and you become nauseated by the idea of preserving your existence any longer, to fall asleep and repeat a cycle that everyone always claims ends, but never claims an end for their own. a never ending cycle of hope. all for a little bit of comfort in our dying world.

shoot.. i’m sorry. i forgot we were trying to think of something to do..

now that i think of it, i’m rather tired. let’s try making plans another day.

-ac