A Collection of Spectacles


I don’t understand what you want

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You cannot be mad at me when you were never honest about your emotions and I gave you every opportunity to be open and direct.

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In the year 2020 

I’m trying not to think too much

about missing you,

or whatever,

Instead, I’m sitting at my desk,

Placating myself with the joys modern society

has afforded me,

Aphorisms printed on coffee cups,

Vagueposting at three am.

Algorithmically driven comparative thinking 

has become a new hobby.

I love you more,


but at least he reads my fucking messages.

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Really, I don’t know what’s true and what’s not. Gaslit by the moonlight. She may gloat now, but maybe my tear stained face is a premonition. Anyone can seem crazy under the right conditions. I am feeling rage swell up in me again because most romantic partners I’ve had have inflicted emotional damage out of insecurity. I don’t think you grasped what I meant when I called you immature. I meant you didn’t love yourself enough to love me. To realize I know you are flawed and I love even your shortcomings. I don’t deserve to be in a roster with two others.

I can’t do anything but be a terrible romantic, as much as I wage war against romanticism. Thrown under the bus and lied on in order to serve someone else’s well being, but when I complain I’m unreasonable. You ignited within me something I can’t convey and inspired me to do things I will never forget. I truly appreciate how rare that is, enough to take a leap of faith, and it hurts because it seems like you don’t. I can’t patch over how unjust this all is, and I hate pondering ethics.

K has been visiting weekly and really helping me function, to be honest. We have issues but I feel all in all he is sometimes one of the few people I know who takes the time to try and understand me, instead of characterizing me entirely as the extravagant persona I’ve created. He peels back and tries to expose the fruit.

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Up, thinking and waiting. Life has been really tumultuous lately, but things seem to be subsiding a bit. My phone pings constantly, daily, yet I only pine for you still but why and what the fuck am I still doing caring? Trying to pull you in from far away is so frustrating and unfulfilling when we live in the same city. I touch myself every morning with a sense of longing. I’m leaning on these things called emotions.

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Remorse swirls inside of me. I was a cruel girlfriend at times. I can’t unpack K and I in this post, maybe next. It feels important for me to do so I can understand myself better.

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Love shouldn’t hurt but often it feels painful for me anyway. For the first time in a while, I can’t figure out what to say.

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I remember when you talked about the value of life after your friend passed away, and I hope all you said then still resonates when you are up late and alone.

I should run away from the comfort I get when I feel like you possess me, for the betterment of us both.

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After drinking our daily pint, I became an arrogant bitch. Then I cried on and off throughout the day thinking about all the needles I shoved in your side. I hope more than anything that I haven’t shut the door on you, unclothed and emotionally open. I want to sit in your brain and touch anything you’ll let me. To be trapped in that wondrous maze forever would be an honor.

The last guy wouldn’t kiss me because he wasn’t attracted enough to me, so now the act just makes me uncomfortable, even when I want it. I flip my phone front screen facing down out of habit after having had too many fights over who was saying what to me. I can’t always cum because sometimes I dissociate which is frustrating because fucking you is like a dream. Here’s the part when I unfairly drop you in a field full of trauma and my poor decisions. It’s hard to feel like I’m in competition with everyone else to get to know you. I want to be held bare (what a new feeling) and I’ll write a thousand posts to prove it.

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I’m obsessive so it’s best I channel my efforts towards a hobby and not a person. I do this thing where I delete apps off my phone when I’m nervous. Hearing that ping, a dating app mating call, cuts through the silence. I want to connect but I can’t reach through. If you dig deep enough, is it even worthwhile? Another day, another chance to fail at curbing my vices. We talked a lot about how secretive we could be and now you shy away when I’m too close to your phone. He said I was fucked up for cheating on him and writing about it. For all of my complaints, I could never give up my freedom for the affection of another, as imperfect as such a concept is. I guess I should focus less on changing for others and more on improving myself, or something like that.

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I always follow up admissions of happiness with an acknowledgment of how strange that is. Should I be totally honest with someone who admits, in their dedication to honesty towards me, will never care about anyone but themselves?

Everything seems like gesturing, sometimes. I’m tired of being placated. My biggest pet peeve is men giving me disingenuous comments about my work in order to fuck me.  I figured I was one out of three, not one out of ten. I hate sex.

Boys and their antics are less frightening the second time around. They give themselves away easily, or maybe it’s just easier to examine situations I’ve been in before.

You have to read in order to get to know me because I can’t explain my feelings succinctly sometimes, even though I talk incessantly. Everyone’s fucked up. Seems like everyone wants to want someone who doesn’t want them at all.

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