wordplayground

the words got stuck
on their way out, yes somewhere
somewhere between the lips and the voice
they never stopped, only jumbled
into meaninglessness and apathy
unable to force cohesion, these words
were not even mine, only remnants
of a language by default
if you rearrange this, 
could you make it your own?
could you filter me out? could you
even evoke happiness from these words?
then you would have to know me,
but remember, remember
i still don't even know myself

how was i to know i would feel empty of a self? 

so this is the answer you ring in with?
we're uncertain,
we need an observation period,
but the alarm bells indicate you're correct.
you win five minutes of our time,
you tell your stories, and
when the time is up
we'll let you back in
we'll forget, again.
you had the right answer,
you called,
you're clean, days now,
this is what you want,
right?

will i blame the methadone,
can i blame the answer?
if you disappear,
if the methadone fails,
(not you, not you)
how will i rationalize the pain
once more?

if i trusted you once, 
will i ever again?

i find my own words cycling through my head:
ridiculous,
disgusting,
pathetic.
yes, this time those were my words.
what can i do with them?
echo those words,
so i can shove them down someone else's throat,
live vicariously through how they feel about my words.
but those were my words,
what will be left of me when i've so easily given them away?

how are you?
"okay" (afraid alone uncertain)
what did you do today?
"not much" (coped cried repressed)

i only stop on prime numbers
because i want something real
something that can't be 
divided or broken down or
overanalyzed
or even simplified
you probably never could give me that
(would you even want to?)
it's ridiculous
corny
even normally pathetic
but
i want to fall in love
madly, head-over-heels in love
and i'm tired of settling
because i'm scared i'll never have that
but i want a prime number,
why should i settle for less?

let's say that night
(you know which one)
didn't happen.
and let's say your priorities shifted
(something other than getting high),
where would we be then?

maybe (just maybe)
we could start back at that night
and do things a little differently...

it could be just the two of us,
together, alone in a crowd.
we could win this fight.
but which two, and where?
i lose myself in the details
which battle would we fight?
and why? because,
i'm tired of running from
front to front.
previous positions undefended
in the meantime.
i just can't be the poster girl
for every violation of rights.
i haven't the energy to hold up
this sign, write this letter, to
educate the ignorant majority.
i can't be that anymore.
i am just me.
but i am willing to hold your hand,
to be the two of us.
just as soon as i know who you are.

running water
and i cry
because i can't find the right combination of hot and cold,
which becomes another overwhelming question, 
and i'm too little to answer.

if there were a story of us the climax would come at the end of the first paragraph. the remainder of the text would stretch on for eternity, a meaningless epilogue about the course of events in a day or the glare of the sun in our eyes, all highlighted by occassional memories of that first paragraph. how long could we remember?