i feel too exposed

Another day that my head feels encased in glass.
You’ve had this fishhook stuck in my jaw for months
now. The skin is always trying to tear no matter how
gracefully we try to cut ties. All this blood I’m losing
and yet you always manage to walk away without
getting your hands dirty. I know shadows are meant
to be weightless but when yours isn’t hovering over
me, I feel just a little too exposed. And I know it
makes no sense to keep writing poems to somebody
that is always covering their ears, but I’ve spent my
whole life learning how to speak louder so maybe
I’m hoping one of these days you won’t treat it like
I’m white noise. And truth be told, I don’t know if
this is a love poem or just second nature and I’m
not sure if there’s even a difference between the two.
All I know is that these days I feel more like the place
you only visit when you’re having a hard time sleeping
again. You pluck at my heart strings better than a
violinist until I’m not saying anything but your name.
And I know my voice is good for something beyond
this, but I think my life line had your love poems
written into it before I even had a say in the matter.
—  LOVE POEMS & LIFE LINES, angelea l.
Sugaring on Insta

Instagram is a good place to find sponsors and I’m thinking about doing it but then again I’m too paranoid and I feel like it’s easy to get exposed on there lol. But if you’re bold enough you can find guys on there.

Your Instagram should have some tasteful, sexy, cute pics. It’s Instagram you’re not supposed to look real, use all the filters you need to lol. Anyways, when you go on the app. There’s a search tab. Click on that and then click on the search bar and then click on places. Then you can search anywhere in the world and pics will pop up. So you can search the most expensive hotels, resorts,neighborhoods, restaurants, shops, etc. When pics pop up scroll through and look for guys who have pics with not too many likes (less than 80). Look at their profiles and you can just tell if they have money or not. For example, the places they stay, the food they eat, the furniture/interior design in a pic, cars, his suit, the people around him, etc. You can just tell a legit baller to a fake one. Once you clarify that he is well off from his profile. Then you can like some pics, comment, and DM him. Then you wait for a response. If you don’t get a response then on to the next one, there’s a billion more to finesse😈

Do you guys also do this thing?

If I meet someone in real life before I meet them on the internet, I often don’t want them to see what I get up to on the internet.  

But if I meet them on the internet first, I’m totally fine with them just knowing all the shit.   

Like I have friends I made in highschool and even in college who I’m like, ‘Yeah, I don’t want you to read the shit I put together’ - even if I’m actually really happy with it or something.  There is just this strange line there and I feel too exposed or something.  

Is it like real life proximity people being more of a threat if they think what you do is dumb?  That’s probably what it is.  

A few days after Christmas, Elvis, Priscilla, Larry Geller, and I split up some tabs of acid upstairs at Graceland (Larry had managed to procure the LSD). Sonny West was with us, too, to serve as a non-indulging assistant and security detail if any of us needed help along the way.
We took the tabs, then sat for a while. At some point, it seemed that no matter what anybody said, everybody else started laughing. I looked around at the people with me, and felt like I was not just seeing them, but seeing into them–really knowing them for the first time. I figured maybe they were looking at me the same way, and I started to feel vulnerable, a little too exposed. And that’s when the visuals started to kick in. I stared at Elvis sitting in his chair, and right before my eyes he seemed to morph into a child–a plump, happy little boy. And the more I stared, the more he shape-shifted–until I was seeing him as a great big, chubby baby smiling back at me, contented as could be. I started laughing, and Elvis started laughing, and I realized we were in for quite an adventure.
As the feelings and visions continued to get stronger and stronger, I became a little frightened. I started to wonder if the visions would ever stop, if I’d ever get back to “normal” again. I wanted to be in a safe, enclosed place, to try to get a hold on my reeling mind’s eye. The spot that seemed safest to me was the walk-in closet in Elvis’ bedroom, where I sat under the clothes hanging there. Once I felt properly protected, I began laughing again, and I heard Elvis laugh in response to my laugh. He was still down the hall in the conference room, but we began communicating by laughing back and forth–a call and response of rippling roars and gut-busting horselaughs. The laughter didn’t feel forced or silly–it felt like a real conversation.
When the laughter finally subsided, I peeked out from under the hanging clothes around me and saw an attractive creature, half-cat and half-woman, sort of rubbing and clawing its way along the bedroom wall, and then stopping before a mirror: Priscilla, looking striking and beautiful and lost in a world of her own.
After a while, Elvis, Priscilla, Larry and I regrouped on the huge bed in Elvis’ room. Elvis flicked on the TV that was mounted from the ceiling above the bed. We looked up and were immediately sucked into “The Time Machine,” the somewhat disturbing George Pal adaptation of the H. G. Wells story, starring Rod Taylor and a cat of future-world mutants. It was a film we’d enjoyed before at Memphian screenings, but something felt a little off to me this time. The plot of the film somehow expanded around Rod and the mutants to include all of us on the bed. I felt like we were all in the movie–and that everything Rod and the other characters said applied to us.
At some point, it occurred to the group that nobody had eaten for ten or twelve hours. Pizza sounded like a good idea, and Sonny made the call to have some delivered. When they finally arrived, they smelled great, but I noticed something unusual–from the bottom of the crust to the topping, the pies looked to me to be about three feet thick. I had no idea how I was going to get my mouth around something like that. From the looks on my partners’ faces as they tried to handle a slice, I could tell I wasn’t the only one overwhelmed by the idea of wrestling our way through the mozzarella and pepperoni in front of us. Sonny had no problem knocking off a couple of slices, but the rest of us realized that food and LSD were not a great mix.

Jerry Schilling, “Me and a Guy Named Elvis”

INFJ Confession #975

I want so desperately to be close to people but I need them to want it more than me. I want people to care enough and be interested enough to break down my barriers. If I let someone in too quickly I feel exposed and embarrassed, like I’ve given too much away.

Minific: Prompt “I’m here”

“My whole life is gone, Reddington!” Liz burst out, interrupting him. “I don’t have a home anymore! No husband, no dog, I can’t call my friends, I can’t eat at my favorite restaurants anymore. I wear other people’s clothes, or random things we pick up along the way from stores that aren’t my taste!” She grabbed a handful of her hair and gave it a harsh, angry tug. “I hate being blonde, and every time I look in the mirror I feel like there’s some other woman staring back at me! This isn’t me!” Liz realized her voice was getting louder and more desperate, but she couldn’t manage to reel it back in as she paced the room, suddenly feeling simultaneously claustrophobic, and all-too exposed. “At night, when I feel like everything that was me is slipping away, I don’t even have anything personal to look at, to touch. I have no clue what happened to all my things… The pictures of my dad, things from my childhood…” Liz’s eyes cast around the room frantically, welling with tears. “We run from safe house to safe house, but everywhere we go is just another there–nothing feels like here.” Liz threw her arms out to either side, indicating the room. “Here!–there’s nothing here that is mine, that I can hold on to, nothing that can remind me of who I am, who I’m fighting so hard to be able to be again!”

Reddington had been listening to her silently, trying his best to allow her to vent, to get out what she needed to say. Without warning, his body moving without his permission, he stood abruptly, the fingers of one hand pressed viciously into his chest. “I’m here,” he protested with a fervid urgency. His outburst seemed to take them both by surprise. Not because of the words he’d said, but because of the despondent vehemence with which he’d said them. Reddington dropped his eyes to the floor, let his hand fall to his side, and swallowed. When he looked back up at Liz, he repeated softly, “I’m here.”