Automatic Writing: Sens

Ok, here we go, no stopping. I'm out in the street now, and you've got your coke bottle lenses and we haven't held hands yet but that's not stopping us from kissing ghosts of the past who brush past us and whirl about us in white dresses that our grandmothers wore on their wedding day. What a happy marriage they had oh god we'll never get that back, one more light has gone out of the world and it is never coming back, we're staring down at the dark like a rollercoaster up at the top of the hill, can you feel the pull in your stomach, put your hands up when you die, don't hold on and don't look back, it will only make you sick to see everyone else screaming. Oh god here we go, from the moment were born until the moment we start talking we say everything better with screams and grabs and snot bubbles and cries and why can't I get this right? Twenty three years ago I just had to bellow and holler and everything was better and now that it's winter and now that I'm older and now that I'm living in the world where I never thought I would. I never thought I'd make it this far I didn't plan on anything past the unhappiness of you leaving me behind. I thought I'd put my hands up and die, and that'd be fine because I was looking back at you in your coke bottle glasses, that you don't even have a prescription for, what a silly thing to do, fall in love I mean, and so young, but I had no choice because that's what hormones are for and everything was floating fast and free in the spring sunsets that smelled like rain and melting snow and leaves coming out from their buds. Remember that picnic we planned? But instead I got drunk and depressed and you had to pry the bottle of whiskey from my hands and I only let you because you promised to let me stroke your hair back from your eyes so I could look into them and see them, and I was only trying to see something more than myself, but I guess you thought too much of me to let me see that in your eyes and that's why you left the picnic that we planned and told me not to pass out on your doorstep anymore and whenever I walk by that alley where I punched the bricks until my knuckles bled oh what a stupid plan that was I thought I was being great and masculine and really feeling something but that's ridiculous, but that's hormones for you, they make you punch and grab and scream, and maybe that's the best way to communicate what you really mean. I started writing letters with my bandaged hands and now I haven't stopped, I burn the ones I write to you in a metal trash can next to my desk and there's a soot stain on the ceiling of my room, every time I look at it I think of you in those fucking  coke bottle glasses and the white dress my grandmother wore, I don't know how my mom ever let you try it on, you smelled like moth balls when I kissed your neck that night, but I didn't mind because that meant something more to me than anything had up until then, that's when we started holding hands it was two months before the picnic we never made it to and a year before the rains came in April, I still don't know why you left, and you're only a block away I could see you tonight if I wanted to, but it is better this way. I'm leaving town soon, and even though you said I love you and that everything was a terrible mistake the last time I saw you you were so drunk on jello shots that you went into the bushes and peed right in front of me and asked me to hold your hand. I couldn't help it so we spent another night, and in the morning we had a picnic where you told me that you didn't even remember telling me that you loved me and when I looked up at you with all that hurt in my eyes, you said but drunken words are sober emotions and you should have known that's not good enough for me so I left and now I'm gone forever from that place where I broke my knuckles on bricks and I'm hitting on girls in bars and wishing they were anywhere as neat and smart as you because I can't stand girls who can't carry on a conversation even if its about something less than art, and I'm sure that they can't stand me, at least I don't objectify their bodies, just their minds, who is the asshole who objectifies their souls? Not me, I'm not sure we have those, now that's not saying we don't because there are moments when I know we do but that's when I'm watching children in the park with their mothers and that seems to be the closest thing I've seen. Somedays I can't look into my mother's eyes because I'm afraid she'll see everything that I've done to myself while I'm walking home drunk and alone.