I don’t get it
Please help me understand how your promises of “forever”,
Are already over,
I seem to lack the understanding as to how I was your “everything”
But now I don’t seem to be anything to you but a ******* game,
Is this fun for you?
It’s a shame I’m backing out, this game is for two
Have fun playing by yourself.
It’s interesting how you tell me your friends have nothing to say to me
Yet it seems you still have things to say to them about me
And even your closest friends are in my inbox, trying to learn my side of what’s going on here.
Hm.
Go ahead and mock me
I dare you, call me crazy
Tell your friends I’m obsessed with you or whatever helps you sleep through the night,
But know that I’m getting my rest regardless.
Because I went from
“Oh my God, he doesn’t even care anymore”
To
“You know what, I don’t even care anymore”
And now every night I sleep great.
What’s funny is you begged me for a chance,
I sent you away yet you still came crawling back
So I don’t understand what the hell you’re playing
Do I amuse you?
Or are you simply trying to seem cool?
Cause it’s weird how you were crystal clear about how you used to feel
But now you can’t seem to remember how to express your emotions
See, I’m starting to wonder if you had any to begin with
Or was this all just a run through?
A twisted, ****** up way of seeing how much I would do for you?
You might as well tell me now, you have nothing to lose
Not anymore
See you already ****** up
You already lost the girl who’d have done anything for you
Because you were too **** stubborn to care about her

Why are we so
Obsessed,
with the liquid paint
that we slather on our
faces-
morning after morning?

We stroll the isles of
Fifty shades of Nudes
to find the shade
that makes us look like
Painted glass
Porcelain dolls,
and Fake.

Why?
Why are we so obsessed with
Maybelline and
Covergirl and
Elf?
The brands that contour
our faces
and create an illusion
a canvas
Over-painted by
Overpriced
Chemicals.

Beauty costs
Money.
Youth.
Clear skin.
But it brings this sense of
false hope that
maybe-
we can accept ourselves
after we put on this paint
and call it beauty.

We see Photoshop,
the blurred lines,
the perfect wing,
and the rosy shade of blush
that seems perfectly
Fake.
Too perfect to be real
Too perfect to be real.

And yet we strive,
for this unattainable beauty.
The **** we see on
Facebook
YouTube
Instagram
drives us crazy
because no matter how hard we try
no matter how much we waste
we can’t seem to get that
contour right
and that wing sharp
and that mascara clump-less
and that lipstick perfect.

And even though
we cannot seem to get it right,
we buy
we strive
to be the perfect shade of perfection.
Because we’re obsessed.

Everyone is so obsessed with
      trying to find Sanity
While I'm just keeping to myself,
      praying not to ever be.

The Sanity that you all want and yearn for and desire
Is nothing more than living in a world engulfed in **Fire

curtains closed, I sit in darkness
as I wait for you
if you don't return,
I will have spoken to no one all day

full of graceful accomplishments,
my river still runs dry
with the thought of sleeping alone
and waking with surprise
at the empty sheets next to me

every time, I sigh
and I hold back the urge to cry impulsively
distraught over a broken nail
as husbands die of cancer
in the hospital down the street

oh, how I'd cry then,
if it were you dying,
but you're just simply gone -
off to work, doing your duties

as I wait in the darkness,
and I think of you
please don't stay at your mother's tonight
I promise,
your little brother will be just fine

I sit on our recliner,
Luna bar wrapper on the floor.
My robe is cinched
too tight, a reminder--
your fingers should meet
around my waist, but my ****
and *** should spill out of your palms
because defined curves and wiles
are the definition of a divine
woman worthy of insta-fame,
tumblr posts, and right
swipes.

I'll twist and turn and pose
in front of any mirror, desperate
for a flat-planed stomach and fuller
cleavage, the whole time
wondering if you look at me bent
over the bathroom counter, fixing my eyeliner,
and think that I'm a dime disguised
in a size 0 dress.

If my sides could shrink as fast
as my self-esteem, I'd never crunch
my abs into idealistic numbers again.

Lately I’m obsessed with the black and white photos of the world. The way they bring out the details you didn’t think you’d see in your life.
Lately I’m obsessed with the hidden greyscale of my life. The little spots or blemishes I didn’t know I had in between the cracks of my mind.

Lately I’m obsessed with knowing all I can know about how to forget my past. How to find those ancient remedies or dark coffees and fruity teas that will stop the pain in my heart for a little while.

Even though these obsessions seem so tiny compared to my big thoughts and wild dreams.. I can’t stop thinking of what’s next. Mystery lies on the horizon of my new obsession & how I will handle it.

Look at me.
Just look at me the way you look at those other girls.
They’re everywhere, little miss ‘perfect’s
who have *******, big bottoms, blonde hair
what’s wrong with me?
Just because I don’t look like that.

Talk to me.
Just talk to me the way you talk to those other girls.
You know the ones I mean,
the ones that initiate conversation through the eyelids they bat,
through their smell that lingers as they walk past your table,
you just can’t help but want to talk to them.
What’s wrong with me?
Just because I don’t smell like that.

Be with me.
Just be with me the way you want to be with those other girls.
The way that you slide into your covers of a night
and ponder what it would be like to be in theirs.
I can’t help being who I am.
What’s wrong with me?
Just because I can’t be like that.

Well maybe I should stop watching you.
Well maybe I should stop imagining you.
Well maybe I should stop,
         maybe I should stop being with you.

A week ago, I noticed
a cramp in my neck
veins aching,
old bones cracking because -- I don’t know how to use them anymore

I only hold myself like this now.
In a position with a one-track mind
where I only look at my feet.

A part of me.

A month ago,
I noticed a cramp in my thumbs.
The veins in my wrist at a stand still -- no blood
because I don't need blood for my thumbs to type.
But soon…
my veins, my bodies connections aren’t helping
and I can no longer move my thumbs.

Disconnected
Wireless
Obsessed with me & my own person

I can’t make eye contact.

all I see of my friends anymore are words and emojis --

There is no depth.

All I see
Is the tile beneath my feet where my roots cannot grow
wi-fi…
is a broken system

Last night I walked into a cafe where love is blind and so am I

And whether or not is a newspaper or laptop
I won’t talk
because I am scared to ask
the article he is reading,
the essay she is writing, or the game they are playing.

If I do talk, I will look at their
Ears
Nose
Mouth
Hair
Forehead wrinkles
Or the space between their eyes because
I am afraid.

My name is Robert Nelson.
I’ve been married for fifty years
and I do not know the color of my wife’s eyes

My name is Jill Lennord & I cannot see the greens,
blues, or browns hidden in my husband’s face
and I have not known them since the cafe.

I can’t read a compass.
I tried turning it, but I only found an x.

X

The dependent variable.

ME

Dependent.

dependent on a broken connection, a broken system separating tables & people in cafe,
Dependent

searching for a Y variable.
but that requires that I look there
or there
or there
and I can’t do that I can’t find why I can’t
I can’t find my independence.
I don’t know why.
I can’t find my Y
All I have is my safe spot.
My feet,
My roots,
Me.
My obsession with me.
I’m obsessed with a disconnect and
EYE don't know why…

I can’t just look up.

I saw how obsession led to the rotting of your mind,
and threw you onto the path of madness of a kind;
it all began when he stopped looking at you the way he used to;
yes it all began when you realised he'd never even loved you.

You thought you could win his heart,
if only you could make yourself look like a work of art,
so you dropped six stone and dyed your hair blonde,
everything to keep him from his need to abscond.
And you pierced your nose and got a tattoo,
all because you knew that was the kind of girl he was into.
You became emaciated - a skeleton so withdrawn,
no longer the person you once were and now so forlorn.

I saw how obsession led to the rotting of your mind,
and threw you onto the path of madness of a kind.
Now you're just a shell of a girl I used to know;
a ghost who lost her once golden glow.