untie my knot with your rough hands

really want to write. really want to write. really want to write but nothing is coming out of me. no filing system to pull a topic out of. no way to be passionate because I want to. no organized thoughts because a writer's thoughts are deluded and rancid. and deluded is not organized. nor is rancid. because.... why? I really don't know. because I have a knot in my stomach that I know will not be untied with the soft hands of sleep or the kind fingers of conversation with another body. maybe with another soul. one inside me. this is why I write. because this knot refuses to be softly tugged with smooth hands and polished fingernails to be loosely unraveled. this knot is hard. it is solid. as is my core. a core with rough hands not knowing lotion or silk, hands only familiar with sharp things like knives and pistols. a core which flows through my smooth and soft hands with kind fingers and polished fingernails, a core which travels through the knot in this silly stomach of mine and lubricates it so it is free to be unraveled with words. my words. this is why I write.

however, where this knot comes from tonight, I do not know. a stupid boy messing with my beautiful friend's heart. I silly boy doing wrongs to me. and though you may think stupid and silly mean the same, as my friend and me, you are wrong. though this is only a guess. it is not responsible of me, a girl of near sixteen to continue to blame the tying of seemingly impossible knots on things completely out of my control. because a life is inevitable and is bound to fuck you up every once and a while. so is it these dumb boys doing wrongs to wonderful girls? or my fright to go back to high school, a place that's supposedly of magical fun and friends and..... I've yet to attend this school. my school, as it is different for the freshmen at the same school, as it is different for the boys at the same school, as it is even different for the girls of my age at my same school, is not this. my school, a world of inescapable expectations to be perfect on so many standards, grades (a possibility), Catholicism (the girl who fucked it all up at barely thirteen?), a social life (you must be kidding). because girls can be viscous. we all know this. a long story not worth getting into with classes tomorrow, but someday, I'll have to spill everything. boys can be viscous too, we've learned this after great suffering. after mushy-gushy pillow talk followed by a phone call rushing with tears.

with nothing resolved, somehow, my knot has been lubricated. my knot has been slipped through and now lay merely a rope, twisting and turning and looking for trouble. the right side seeking the left. the inside seeking the out. but it's undone for now and I feel as if I can actually rest.