I have no home.

I have no place. Santa Barbara is nothing to me and this fucking desert is becoming so distant. People I don't know and places I can't travel to. They're everywhere. It's all shit, you know that? When you disappear from yourself because you hate it all. In the end, it's just anger and no one gets it. That's the worst- when no one understands what it's like because they're either detached or too attached. There's no in between- I'm either there or here and I can't be both. So I must be neither. I feel awful. The biggest identity loss of my life and I'm misunderstood. I want to go home. Oh wait, where the fuck is that?

I overthink it.

I overthink it and overthink it.
Do I feel the need of someone with me? Do I need constant reassurance? I know I always go too far, and say what I do not mean because no one has ever made me so upset. I've never felt so anxious and I've never felt that I didn't have enough time. But let me explain it to you. Every moment I spend with him is timed, there is always a deadline, there is always a moment again where I won't get to be with him and hold him and be held by him. These short spurts of time ultimately end up being wonderful but only to end up as extreme discouragement and a missing him intensely. Why is this my relationship? Who would choose this life? I know that this is a sacrifice I am choosing to make for love but a love this disconnected and this painful - a love timed; an unfair love. I can count the days I've seen him, count the times he held me as I cried, count the times I stared at him as he drove. I hate that I haven't missed count. I'm sorry, Christian, for being so upset. I don't mean to be, I just need more time with you. I apologize that this is probably all unreasonable; I'll come up with a better argument not at 3 in the morning.

I was and If I was

I was passing by the world. I only saw a glimpse of what I should have. I stared and stared at golden suns pouring spoonfuls of their violet milk into pools of broken eyes. Oh my Lord, whose arms are those around me currently, keeping me safe from the shards of winter winds? Are they yours or are they my own? Am I so weak that I have succumbed to your will without my knowledge, unable to consciously make that decision for myself? Or am I so strong that I created my own God, one with large hands like my father's. A God bearing the scent of my mother, a scent that clings to my memories and drags them back as silhouettes on tear-filtered nights. My palms are placed on cement blocks, my head hung low enough to drip the black off my hair. The four minutes and two seconds of sanity some song provides me will only endure the sorrow for as long as the five struck piano keys in the distance remain ringing in my ears. I used to be lonely, but not like this.
Whose voice is this that squeaks from my parched lips? The puckered wrinkles on these hands are not my own, the pictures hanging on the wall are those of yesterday. That is a picture of my grandfather, that is one of my daddy before he knew the picture of my grandfather would be too precious too soon. Why am I not strong? If I had a boat, I'd crawl the ocean to October 31st, when Viktorria brushed my hair back and Elisa's hugs held me together. Then I would go back to a Sunday afternoon, when my parents and I watched television together, anything together. Anything with someone other than myself.