the buzzing of the gun, the ink that flows under skin. not mine, but his. it’s his first time. not mine. I’m just a spectator this time around. even though the buzz of the needle makes my skin itch, blood rise, heart pump, hairs stand on end. today I just enjoy the dulling pleasure of the sound. the physical element of sharp contact will have to come later. delayed gratification. lessons in self restraint. what is it about pain, sweetly, sickly haunting, with the power to intrigue, and repel simultaneously. red walls that mirror the flush in my skin. the incessant buzzing rings out – no space for thoughts of my own. I’m fine with that. at this point, I’m embracing it. I welcome the noise numbing, brain blocking sounds that fill the red-walled place i find myself. it’s all a distraction. so much of life is, depending on how you want to live. the buzzing ceases, thoughts commence.

I’m sorry if I seem uninterested
Oh I’m not listenin’, oh I’m indifferent

flashback to last weekend, a moment when I realized I was faking it. I wasn’t really laughing, what that blur of a person said wasn’t actually that funny. it was forced, uncomfortable. the thought occurred to me that I have the choice – the choice to sit and stay, or stand and leave. I chose the latter. the buzzing of thoughtless conversation blurs to a dim as I lift myself out of the stupor, and into the cool of night. the cool of darkness meets my skin, a sense of belonging washes over me.

Truly I ain’t got no business here
But since my friends are here, I just came to kick it
But really I would rather be at home all by myself
Not in this room with people who don’t even care about my well being

distractions. mirages. facades. masks. here and there. I see conflicting reminders of what is real, and what is not. fragments of foreign conversations reach my ears over the dim drone of some excuse for music. the door is open something less than a breeze makes its way in. over my skin. the sweater I wear, that I love, the one that’s too big and falls off my shoulders. it’s the perfect combination of exposure and coverage. coolness and warmth – is it really any wonder that I find such comfort in a knitted contradiction? not really. I don’t mind the company of people, but I crave real company. genuine conversations and connections. not this booze soaked, glazed eyed, orgy of mindless conversation. give me something real. something with substance. if you can’t, then just give me quiet.

I don’t dance, don’t ask, I don’t need a boyfriend
So you can, go back, please enjoy your party
I’ll be here, somewhere in the corner
Under clouds of marijuana with this boy who’s hollerin’ 

the corner. oh the sweetness and safety that comes in going unnoticed. let me just curl into this place where two walls meet. let me curl into myself and away from the outward jumble of confusion. it’s nothing personal I just prefer this cloud of smoke to your cloud of conformity. a time of realization. following no longer fulfills. standing alone and on my own feels better than standing amid this sea of unfamiliar masks. in some cases smoke fogs, in this case it clears. things become quiet. not so jutting and angry, anxious and clipped but smooth and soft. it all melts away. call me Eeyore all day but I don’t want this cloud to go away. the cover of grey keeps the pain of projection muted. I’ll sit here in this corner. go fill your plastic cup with more delusion, and distraction. leave me to my thoughts. twisted and conflicted as they may be at times, they are mine, they are what led me to this place of realization – that this “here” is not the same as that, “here”. your here is different from mine and so on. if I’m confusing you give yourself the space to think a little harder. ask the questions, question the questions and question the answers. then look at yourself and ask,

Oh God why am I here?

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