Extroverted Introvert
I woke to the sound of rain pounding against the roof and thunder crashing right outside the window, and you smelled like Marlboro Red 100’s and Budweiser, or maybe that was just your room. Where we tracked smoke and laughter into this house and heard a can crush beneath your foot, and you hissed “FUCK!” and we whisper laughed some more. Fell onto your bed and we got lost in each other, and I didn’t know where I was and I didn’t care, because holy shit, I wanted to stay forever.
Who needs people when you have food?
Edit: Or cigarettes, video games, liquor, weed, anime, comic books, cars, novels, and movies?
I used to think that all humans were born with the ability to understand that everybody is fighting their own battles. I thought that all humans were born with the ability to take into consideration that everybody has problems. I thought that all humans were born with the ability to think before they speak. That all humans grew from a foundation of respect, kindness, and the desire to help someone rather than bring them down.
I was a naïve kid, I will admit. But damn, what a world that’d be.
I know more about cars than I know about the human heart, but if ever it starts to rust from too many tears healing the dings and dents and all you are trying to do is keep the paint chips from peeling off then my god, I promise you that I will find a way to stop all your love from leaking out. Because I am not cat litter on an oil spill; I cannot absorb your affections and protect them behind lock and key, or with a bag of my own sentiments that deploys when you fall too hard and crash. But I can help you brush your knees off and replace your exterior with something more durable than that flimsy skin you currently wear, and you’ll be up and running again in no time. And I’m sorry I can’t love you back but damn, maybe this time I’ll find the right tool and try.
useless shit nobody cares about #3 - Now that my Bronco is just about done, I introduce my new project car. A ‘67 Camaro.
He wears the same sweatshirt from the night they first had sex, the ends of the sleeves torn from calloused fingers twisting at the seams when he sits in class, face forward and hands in his lap. His life has become pieces of black strings whitening from too many repetitions of the same old cycle — wake, breathe, and just try to get by. It’s time he patches the holes and cuts the sleeves, invests in a new sweatshirt so he can toss this one into the darkness his closet walls create. The dusty and cobweb-ridden skeletons have come alive and need something to wear.
