i'm bleeding from the head, or i was. and it's now a dull pain but it's still more real, more physical than anything else i've ever felt. and his voice is in the background, still there no matter how many times i say "go". I've said it before, a fact he denies, i've never meant it before, something i just realised. i've wanted to. somehow the bloodied bathtube made it real. I miss you so, I hate myself for the hurt. 

I want out of this city, because he is physically everywhere no matter what i do. I can't get out of this city because of him and you. 

first loves never fade... their endings just seem more and more ideal. 

wishing for a bottle of vodka from your freezer. 

I think maybe that I don't know how to feel and so I just get really nauseous. 

in your presence i breathe a silent sigh of relief. 

the sound of footsteps, made more obnoxious by the sharp slap of flimsy plastic sandals on the sidewalk. voice is hoarse and sometimes words don't come out, all the better when the thoughts should be kept silent. walled in, sealed off without air, or water, or food. left to die, but fed by the adrenaline rush courtesy of the images that your own shadow casts on the walls. you can't kill it, maybe you need it there. 

I want to feel from you the surge of more-than-blood pumped through my veins, and I suppose I want a taste with more subtlety, where the nuance has not been burnt out. 

conversations i particpate in. 

-you're both wearing jean jackets.

-yeah, but at least i don't have a case of shiny-gay-face. 

-true.