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12:04 a.m.
Bi-Polar version 15

Even more of my psychotic ramblings

The formatting screwed up when I pasted it in, but whatever

I'm not the sort that inspires yearning.

And that's not low self esteem talking
(Not that my esteem is the highest)
That's just practical information gathering
That is the pragmatic, well crafted, self image of a fat girl
who knows she'll always be fat.

The thing is,
When I'm out of reach
(Whether it be physically, literally, gone
or somehow metaphorically or socially unattainable)
No one yearns.

It's simply not what happens.

At best, I'm missed.
At best, I'm thought of
In that sort of
Oh she'd love this place--
Or, if only she'd seen--
I can't wait to tell--
And at the best. At the absolute best
In the wildest of my most practical dreams
Someone rolls over in bed and wishes I was there.

a heavenly thought.

And an attainable one.
My absence has proven it can inspire those things.
But they only happen after you've had me.

After I've kissed you enough
To know you like a tug on your bottom lip.
After you've made me cry out
After the awkward moment of
It's fine. You're doing great.
Honestly, I'm just not that into being penetrated,
Ya know?
After I've made pancakes in your apartment in a tank top and underwear on a Saturday morning before either of us have showered and you come up behind me and slide a hand down my back and tell me how cute my butt looks at that exact moment.

I can be a comfortable kind of sexy
Like a soft armchair you sink into
And can't bear to get out of.
Luscious and inviting.
But you never would have picked me out just from sight. Your roommate brought me home and you complained that I didn't go with the decor, but then you sat.
And the sitting made me desirable

Of course the "you" I've used till now is editorial.
It's "one".
"One" would have never picked me on sight...

But you.
the real you.
The pronoun with a person at the other end.
You are the sort that inspires yearning.

You have that laugh that echoes in people's ears
A smile that vibrates behind people's eyes
Your touch fades away slow
Like a handprint on foggy glass
When people look in your eyes possibility glistens back at them

It glistens.
You inspire strange, possibly inaccurate, but flowery, uses of language.

And when you're gone
Oh when you're gone.
You see, I make people soft, wistful.
You create deep guttural need.

People's hearts pull taught like they are at the other end of a tin can string, straining. hoping. praying to hear a faint whisper of you.
My chest feels stretched so thin I fear it will snap, the ends recoiling back to give me a slap in the face
Thoughts drift to ways you might touch me again
Words you might say to me again
Strangers with similar haircuts
Stop my heart for dangerous lengths of time.
I'm plagued by unstoppable visceral daydreams
Of your breath in my ear
Your body warm beside me in bed
And the never ending hope
That somewhere I'm on your mind even a sliver as often as you're on mine.

But I'm not the sort who inspires yearning
And I'm one of the singular in the plural of the people who've yearned for you
Old hat, I'm sure
Flattering, quite likely
But oh, I'm sure it raises the bar.
All that yearning must do wonders for your self esteem.

And this time apart.
(And you can tell I'm deep in yearning
Because I use phrases like "time apart"
When I've never even touched your lips)
This time apart is only deepening the divide.
Because while you're gone I can ache and writhe and dream
Project onto the canvas of your laughter and smile
All the things I want you to be.
And I try to stop.
Try to think of you only in known quantities
But I keep weaving you into fantasies.
Dropping you into the story of something that has never happened
Making you the character who traces a hand down my arm
And asks me about my scars
(The literal ones.
Not asking about metaphorical scars
like that song from a few summers ago)
And as I'm wading hip deep In yearning
It's hard to believe it isn't true
That you'll be the one to ask.
Because you'll pull the sword from the stone
Kiss the corpse
And the more time passes
the more sure my yearning makes me
The more real my imaginary you

While somewhere the real you
is spending their time not pining
Not yearning
And you haven't had the chance to learn how to miss me

And the time that makes me certain
Is the same thing that makes me so wrong.
Every minute that goes by
You're a little less interested
In asking