Yours Not Have Myself

I've been winning a losing battle for some time now. Day-to-day I've been watching the numbers flip in an arbitrary fashion and this entire time I've convinced myself losing was winning and vice versa. The relativity I'm feeling extends down many an understanding: one of family, one of banal circumstance, and dare I say the relativity of physics.

I'm grounded in this gasoline haze, hoping the trees will sway into a cartoon form or the breeze will dissipate into writing. I'm loosing grips as far as I'm accessing new handles. I'm losing touch while gaining ground. I no longer can tell which way the signs are pointing and I'm just failing to contain my beliefs "that I'm fine, everything is okay....". I'm losing strength, gaining speed, and heading for a confrontation.

I feel. Even when there is void or absence a presence is created. A silence prompts so much giberish that talking is all the better. The bearing of weakness, quite transforming to a bare weakness, is neither making me stronger, more reflective, or more okay with the situations.

I'm well-adjusted. A keen social sense and placation to a P.C appropriation surfacing above the internal instability. I've stood here for so long quivering, I've been born and re-born a thousand times in the eyes that pass me, judgment, and ridicule. I let you see yourself and have often found that those who find distaste in a first impression often have swirled themselves twice over in admonishment.

I'm dealing. I want to scream and I've pruned in the rain as a result of my own demise. I've reduced to tears and have trembled under the weight of the footsteps that pass and subsequent curious eyes that are too busy to do anything but graze. I'm an obstacle, to them and myself. A burden that must be trespassed in order to go on through the day, through life.

I'm frustrated with my lack and furthermore yours. I feel like all I'm feeling are excuses that don't belong or aren't contextualized. When I ball up, it's an invitation. I like your problems more than my own, because it means that I'll have something else to roll around in my mouth when the silence seeps in.

I'm balancing, best as I can. Yet, I feel unable to comprehend anything but a distant regret or a lackadaisical attempt at disavowal. You don't want me here and frankly I want to leave. Just like I've wanted to scream or stand on a chair or project across the room how much it hurt to be tossed aside. I've wanted to apply a sense of confession to the feeling, or lack thereof, of self worth. I haven't spoken for myself because I haven't deserved it.

I have use value. What can I say? Reuse. Reduce. Recycle. Patterns are an easy routine.

When the words float so elegantly on my tongue, the traffic clears and the sounds I have either ignored or been ignorant to for so long come sprinting (as I'm sure they will) onto a nearby ear...then perhaps we will finally make sense of this wreck.

I've never been NOT okay...or maybe I've just been playing on double negatives. Maybe this is me, and maybe this is what I've been reassuring myself I will always have.