Internal dialogue

Sometimes my internal dialogue is hilarious and I write it down in a folder in my notes labeled schizo. I think it would be more effective if I carried a little notebook in my back pocket and wrote this stuff down there. I met a man who wrote a novel on a notebook he kept in his back pocket. He let me read one of his poems that he wrote when he was heartbroken in Russia.

Sometimes my internal dialogue says things like: stop fucking posting you’re ruining my life! When somebody who is sort of ruining my life is posting. It infuriates me to no end that people can fuck you over and the continue on as if everything is fine, everything is normal. I also do realize that I rarely make my anger known. Everything that bothers me is eaten up and swallowed and it tumbles around in my stomach like a piece of old gum.

People from my past. I’m tired of being haunted. I think I’m too young to be haunted, but pretty much my whole family is dead and I still love people who do not care for me any longer.

I screenshotted something that said

“I wonder if you still dream of me as often as I dream of you but— you’ll never see this and i’ll never ask.”

I’m not sure who wrote it but it made me sick.

Last night I dreamed that I was to spend my nights in the ocean with two others girls. We ate bloody sausages for our dinners, cold and covered in thick sea-salt. A mother prepared them, she sat at the end of the table. Her hair was white-blond and she looked cruel but lovely. Every night the girls and I would trudge into the sea and float there, worried, until the sun came up and we could crawl back to shore.

I don’t know what that means.

Sometimes my brain says nothing at all when I wish it would tell me something worthwhile. Lately all my poetry has been based on conversations. That sucks because now what am I gonna do? Somebody’s words are stuck on my page.