there is a distant sort of love that must stay platonic because if it were to ever slip up, we'll that's surely be moronic. and for all the things i've thought to say and think them still, i'm on it.. trying to sweep the pieces of my messed up heart under someone else's carpet. i'm telling myself to stop it.. but masochistic tendencies are hard to kick - ironic? running outside of my skin, trying to flee the scene. i need a change of pace; a different eye shadow.. a different gleam.. this distant present feeling has me flat lining. i realize i am coming off psychotic.