Im Scared Of Men And I Have A Crush On Nearly All Of ThemThey Make My Stomach Flip With Just A Bit Of

I’m scared of men and I have a crush on nearly all of them They make my stomach flip with just a bit of eye contact How did I never make it past the sixth grade? They could tick none of the boxes But if they have kind eyes and give me a smile I might just concoct a love story It’ll buzz around and tap me on the shoulder  I can’t get rid of it  Every time they see me Try to be kind, try to make them feel at home But I’m flipping with fear, humming with adoration It’s always the ones with the baggy jeans, the vintage tees, the tattoos and recklessness And you know you’re not good for me Yeah you’re no good for me And I’m better now But we can still be friends I have to try my best and fight this little mind of mine But we can be friends Yeah we’ll be good friends

masculinity is the same thing that hurt me and that will protect me

it splintered off bone and it’s what will piece me back together 

it’s what tattered my envelope and what will hide me in the rain

because the wrong men hurt me, the wrong men cut me

but the right men heal me, the right men love me

the right men shelter me

like i never could

and i am safe 

in their arms

― Fyodor Dostoevsky, White Nights

i envied those born into families with hands holding lit lighters all around them, constantly nursing and blowing and encouraging their flames. they took over the world with their wildfires. they glowed from within and seemed to have never faced the darkness. i envied them so much.

Sinking, slipping Why do I always plop right down into what sucks me up and absorbs any remnant of joy? My bed is a monster, it eats me up every day It pulls me down like a magnet, I can’t resist it like iron can’t resist metal I’m sick of it, hate it, wish I could burn it Never need it again But why do I choose it over everything every time? When I’m driving I’m flying But the whole time I’m looking forward to the sweet, sweet relief of my bed I don’t need to try anymore, there’s nothing I need to give It’s a problem, a compulsion, an addiction I riddle my mind with tasks so the dependency is less important Who cares if you’re creating, if you’re producing? But I know it’s not normal to be horizontal more often than straight I need to toughen up, strengthen up, get a stronger back, thicker skin But I cozy up in my bed with the promise of another day Another time I try But it’s haunted, my bed My thoughts are never worse than when I’m in its sheets Coaxed into my personal hell I’m sick of it, sick of it forever It needs to be burned, exorcised From every nightmare, every ghost That plagues my thoughts and jeers at my passions I just want a reset. A point where I don’t have to feel. A place where I don’t have to exist. But it turns out not existing is painful and exhausting. I must keep existing, keep doing, all day, every day. I must keep moving. Faster and faster. I have to stay ahead.