futur3lov3r

[futur3lov3r]

I’m standing in the kitchen in my underwear and a sweater that isn’t mine. My cheeks are flushed warm and my legs are cold.

I’m not quite remembering what I’m supposed to be doing, but I know it’s not sitting with my knees to my neck on the windowsill, drinking that damn coffee blend I don’t even like out of my prized blue-stripe tea cups.

There’s probably an essay to be written, a library book to find, a sweater to mend, a meal to cook.

Instead I write this out the notepad I keep on the counter, dreading the cold shower I’m about to take, and face I’m about to put on.

(written in my kitchen notepad sometime in september)

[futur3lov3r]

Oh, your voice is so sweet

As you hold that small, soft kitten

You sent me a video, forgot it had audio

And in the background I hear you say

“Be quiet baby, it’s late”

The kitten’s purrs almost drown it out

But they don’t

And are you trying to win me back?

I won’t go back

Even though you want me

But I do watch the video again, and one more time after that

I go to bed and hear you say that again

I miss you, even if I’m the one who left

I really fucking miss you

[futur3lov3r]

I’m tired of debating religion and philosophy

With anyone

What I believe will never fail me

I tell myself god is love

And I know it’s true

Still, the love I know is cruel

I let it teach me that I must never be

And maybe that’s gods objective too

As he leaves destruction in his wake (wherever he is going)

As his child, I pay reparations

I still stumble,

The apple fell from the tree

But it still lays on its roots

[futur3lov3r]

We play darts

I hit every shot

You hit none

In the end

I keep going over

Maybe I just trip at the end

Maybe I just like playing with you

I still win

But you feel like we were equal for a moment

I feel guilty for a moment

And that’s all you need to know about us in the end

Darts isn’t really a fun game anyways

(Maybe we’re just not good opponents)

(Maybe we’re not a good match)

[futur3lov3r]

In the end, I’ll still be me

I think-

I might look different

Dress different

parler une langue différente

à certains égards, je suis plus moi-même que je ne l'ai jamais été

And in others, I worry I don’t know myself at all

But I don’t think anyone really does

I hope I’ll keep most of what I am

In the end I’ll still be me

[futur3lov3r]

Great things about having an eidetic memory:

1. learning languages is pretty easy

2. I never have to recount stitches when knitting and crocheting

3. I can learn whole songs only listening or playing once

4. I can play back books and movies in my head when bored

Not great things about having an eidetic memory:

1. I can remember every embarrassing thing I’ve done since I was 3

2. Even though I remember everything, I still forget my keys, phone and wallet on the counter daily, like, why??

3. I can remember what people looked like at their worst/most unnatractive, and my brain values that the same as their current look

4. Everything is stuck on repeat always

[futur3lov3r]

So like how do you say to someone « I know that in a while we’re over, but in the meantime will you stay? » I’m not really asking, but it’s a question I was asked by my wonderful boyfriend, because yes, in a few months we will be over, clean split, still best friends like we were before, we just needed a little break from the outside that we found in eachother.

It might be depressing, but I don’t think so. The only thing I’m afraid of is neither of us wanting to be the one to leave.

[futur3lov3r]

I have this horrible feeling that if I’m not extraordinary always, then I never will be.

[futur3lov3r]

Did you read the book I recommended? Do you understand now, my Dorian?

There were so many ways you could’ve spun the end of us, and you chose to paint me as a liar? Well, I suppose I shouldn’t worry how you paint your words. You were never the artist you portrayed yourself as; too technical and logical, you never stitched your very skin to what you create like I did. You could’ve easily shown your work to anyone, without feeling like it bore your very soul. Maybe you made the right choice in separating yourself from your work, my heavy involvement, no, my obsessive entanglement with my work, has only been a deficit. I think there’s quite a bit of truth in the saying that the muse longs to be the artist, and the artist yearns to be the muse. For years I prayed to be in your spot, to exist in the world beautifully, I paint my face 100 layers thick and am considered as much as art as plain grey wallpaper, you’re considered worthy of sculptures in your honor without effort. I longed to have your ability to convince others that your whims were their very own, to have those who you simply consider amusing occasionally, writing hundreds of poems, even entire books about you. But I could never give up my devotion, even if it meant a beautiful youth like yours. I am unfortunately the most known artist to display you, I have burned my paintings and ground my sculptures to dust, now all that is left of the works of you, are my words.

[futur3lov3r]

And as of today I’ve spent more time trying to forget you than I did knowing you

Does that make you feel special?

[futur3lov3r]

My Boyfriend Pt. 1

I think it’s a lovely thing sometimes

Being in a relationship that is pseudo-platonic.

Like sure, he’s my boyfriend

But he doesn’t care who I kiss, and I don’t care who he does

He is constantly warm, and I’m a perpetually shivering anemic.

And we don’t go on dates, still, the longest we’ve gone without texting since we met is 13 hours

And when we’re together, there’s not really doubt that we’re eachothers favourite

I like having him asleep on my shoulder

We balance out to be just enough, always, I think

[futur3lov3r]

I’d like to pretend I never think of you

But maybe I do look out the window tonight and wonder if you kept your promises

I wonder if maybe tonight you’re out in your beat up gray expedition

I wonder who you’re with

Sometimes I imagine that you do the same

Sometimes I hope you know that I kept that promise

I wonder whether you’d approve of who I am now

I wonder whether I approve of who you are.

[futur3lov3r]

I grew up, promise

And I lost the weight

And I finally got what you said I’d never have

And just like a sh!t movie, I don’t come crawling back

Not because I don’t want to

God you know I do

But because I promised I wouldn’t

And I could never disappoint you.

[futur3lov3r]

Tbh I would probably give anything to go back to sitting on my grandmas couch watching NCIS

[futur3lov3r]

God I hate being goth and living in an isolated island town, like, I doubt there’s a single goth club in my entire state let alone within a 50 mile radius.

[futur3lov3r]

Do I want to be the one smoking cigarettes?

While the musician plays a song which fully embodies the way they see the smoke unfurl like flowing silk lace from off my lips

Am I the charcoal on the hands of the artist?

Smudged across heavy paper unwillingly, each stroke art in itself, the artist will not be happy with the work, he will wash his hands of me

Can I be the lover?

Who speaks about their love in such ways that it becomes art, the most enviable kind, according to those who do not have it

Since I cannot, I will be the ever dwelling creative,

The kind that chose their muse upon meeting them, and even as stares became glances, continues to chronicle the beauty of the only standard they will ever believe as art. Their interests become parallels for their muse, their words become vague (or grotesquely specific) descriptions of their muse in every subject. Their muse will never know their impact on the art (or the artist)

And when the artist gains accord, they will credit it all to their muse, when the art gets studied, gets critiqued, is dissected by the vulturesque journals. They will resent that no one can see, in their spiralling melodies, or in the striking brushstrokes, the eyes of the only true art in the world- not created by hands of this earth, but created entirely by gorgeous circumstances,

The muse can never know- but they must sense, in some fashion, that their likeness, or perhaps, a small portion of their being, became an entire aspect of another person.

Maybe, it is good they do not know.

Maybe, they should stay to sit and smoke their lace-filled cigarettes, and spare not a thought about me.

[futur3lov3r]

My room is hot

And it won’t stop being hot

My thighs are flesh

And it won’t leave my bones

My heartbeat makes me real

And it makes my head spin

I just want to be typical