If I broke the bubbles in the bath with a sledgehammer , I thought myself a murderer. When I break my own heart, I feel like a loser in the gutters of East Toronto. What is the difference between smashing up other peoples lives instead of your own? What makes guilt fight conscience?
What makes you live so poorly so intentionally unpotentially? You know there is more out there for you then sucking bubbles down your throat trying to drown your sorrows,
I aim for sugar dirt. Crusted in your burnt bacon. I’ll bend so far I won’t feel my big toe, stuck in salsa that you dripped down the stove just to see it travel from top to bottom like our slow touches that give us freedom to love our flavoured beauty.
Like cat or baby sitting on our lap, and how often we have to pee or grab the kettle but we share that moment with our heart and our head and we sit still. We don’t get up because to disturb the beauty would be oh so unsatisfying.
The deep pitted ‘if I was avocado sugar feeling, racing around my blood track. Apprehensive little race car cells, being all cute and energetic. Is it better not to brace for impact? And better to embrace the nature of it? There’s beauty in the after affects but holy nugget there’s an oil tank of fear too. Why? Well. Car can’t go vroom without oil, right?
I used to surrender to the power of the love for other people, instead of loving myself. My relationships not lasting because I had no internal peace. Nobody was ever going to be enough in my eyes because I consistently and constantly required more then what any human could give. Internal peace. I am not good for anyone if i am not good for self . If I am my own toxic habit, I will only spill that on the jeans of my partner and no matter how many times you wash, that stain doesn’t come out.