Mar. 22, 2004 @ 7:54 a.m.

For once, I have so much to say, but not so much of a way to express it or what’s going on inside me. A fire rages there, and you are the fuel, only there are no tiny firefighters inside this burning carcass. My heart feels as if it’s writing a novel, about how your heart wants to be wrapped around mine but your ribs won’t let it. About how when our fingers collide it doesn’t feel like a train wreck, doesn’t feel anything like real. It’s about how your brain is your roadblock, how electrical guardsmen change positions up there once an hour and work in six-hour shifts, with sparkling bayonets displayed on high just waiting to be used. Even with an emotional army tank coated with the finest Pittsburgh steel and derived from the purest of raw desire, I would be left to sit outside, alone, in my utterly useless rock of utensils, watching from a distance as you burn away without me be your side. As I stare through tiny, circular brown windows like a ghost watching television. Your mouth tells me things that must come from behind this barricaded brain of yours. I feel like throwing grenades into your hideout for days. I feel like launching a “Shock & Awe” campaign that the world would wake up to tomorrow, hearing about for months. The battles no one ever wins are the smallest of wars that exist in a land no one can touch. The battlefield lays corroded, corrupt, dirtied and anti-fresh for the remainder of it’s existence and the war going on inside of us right now is more revolutionary than anything in the past 100 years of human history. This is our silent battle, but I want to speak loud, for you to speak loud. I want you to come to your senses, sign the damn treaty and lets go on with what we both know is right. You can’t run from certainty, just like you can’t run from death or sin. You can’t deny how good this feels. I can hear your heart tapping on the inner walls of your ribs. I can hear it’s whine, feel it’s passion. Let it out. It wants to play.