new year fickleness

I don't want to be fickle. Writing down whatever dreams I have in my little notebook and then forgetting what and where they are. Walking the graduation stage and then walking home. Going out dancing Friday night only to come home feeling empty again. Faking how light my shoulders and life are on the dance floor... except I've carried everything up until that door. Affording the $10 cover fee like I'm not jobless.

I don't want to be loud and then disappearing, like thunder. I don't want to be so bright and oh-so-gone, like lightning. 

I am exhausted by it. By change. 

I just want to be a slow song.

The forever season. The rest, like forever rain.

The train that visits me every 2 AM. The face that changes around the eyes while the gaze stays the same. 

I want to be the gaze.

But I do still want to dance. I just want to dance honestly. 

As honest as my gaze. 

My sister and friends can feel and see it I bet. A constant whole inside me that if anyone ever mentions a topic too close to it, I start to feel unsteady. I'm smart though. I'll force out two or three sentences that resets their gazes elsewhere. 

Inside, my eyes pop out tears like daisies.

There's a crumbling mess of attempts to sustain my mouth and belly. Sustain all the pits I have. My stomach pit. My heart pit. My mind pit. 

The only time I feel sane is when I pray. How vulnerable I am. How fragile and futile all the attempts I've made for myself not to cry all the time. For if I am as honest as the type of dancing I'd like to partake in, the kind of dance that is as wicked as it is slow, as gentle as my own kisses on the back of my hands, the truth is that the skin around my pinky knuckles has all dried up.

I keep moisturizing and moisturizing but they keep drying. Never not. I come back to where I come from.

The emptiness. The home I left. For the dance I had. And to the home I left.

The home I left. For the friends I made. And to the home I left.

I'm such a bummer for this New Year. Ahhhh I'm so sorry.

And it's unfortunate. Things didn't turn out well. I'm stubborn. And that exacerbates everything haha. 

I'm still hopeful. But even my hope is fickle, always wavering like candlelight. 

I'm afraid of sending out emails now. Like, what the heck? 

For if I am honest, I am unwell.

For if I am honest, I don't want to be here, caught in a torturous wave. Tormented by constant constant hope only made to wash away. I am more fragile than I thought, and ah, I hate that as well.