You were around when things were changing. Our time together may not have been special, but the time was.

I look at you through screens of hate fogging my vision like winter smugging windows with it’s greedy fingers and, although I never could nor do I have any wish to, I hope someone loves you someday.

With every sobbing breath of cotton I suck into the cavity of my chest against my sheets and every I wish you were here, where are you and every wandering set of bare feet against hardwoods floors bathed in white moonlit silence and every second in the indulgence of a mug of tea burning the flesh of my hands, my bare knees on concrete steps wondering why I’m here, I know that I am discovering what sunrise smells like, what laughing tastes like, where happiness is and how I can get there.

This will not be a story of razorblades to virgin flesh or hopeless late nights but of a girl who found where she was supposed to be.

I am constantly in and out of love with myself and so it is in good mind that we never allow ourselves to be loved.

My body doesn’t know to touch a lover. The rest of the world doesn’t break my sight or my touch. I am internal.

Knees at the tip of my chin, teeth at the curve of my shoulder, fingers at the nape of my ankles.

I want bruises on pale skin and cigarettes in the breath of morning and red lipstick on chapped lips and the romantic loss of innocence as I pull my fingers through your hair and feel myself feel you.

I don’t know why things changed. I don’t know what I did to make them change.

I don’t know why you lied to me. I don’t know why you decided to use me the way that you did.

I don’t know why I let you.

You always used to tell me to stop taking things so seriously and I never found a way to properly explain to you that there really isn’t a lot that I care about but those things that I do, I care about with everything I have because they mattered.

You mattered once.

I have always been amazed by the capacity to feel without cause, that I can find myself happy or sad for the same reason that I feel empty, simply because it is there. The same way it appears, it can disappear. When sadness holds on when it’s visit is uninvited, nothing can lighten it, nothing can drown it out as it had no purpose and in turn, no counter purpose and, at the same time, anything can cause a blow to happiness that is felt without reason so that it feels like it was never really there at all and I cannot grasp how dense and sudden and illogical all of this is.

I am not familiar with being so wildly pursued and it bothers me. I don’t like it, you don’t know me.

I have a bad grasp of the concept of time to the point that it terrifies me to immobilization, to wanting to freeze completely. I am not sure of what is real and here other than what I am told while I can feel what is meant to be the present slipping into the past before I can even feel it there at all and the future falling into place in the same manner. Are the past and future really real if they are not here? If the present is constantly becoming and then forgetting the future and the past both separately and simultaneously, is that real? If it isn’t, what is? How much of my life is real and how much of what is real has escaped me before it was mine in the first place?

I wonder if other options truly exist at all if we did not take them. Perhaps things don’t happen for a reason. You have to create a reason for them to happen because you cannot change them. I wonder if there is really any other way of exist if this is the only ay I have ever known.

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(Source: ordinarywonder)

(Source: dylansp)

It is far easier to focus on the pain that you could cause than to allow myself to be touched by everything else that surrounds me. I’ll take your blows because they are the softest right now and the marks are smaller.

This isn’t even really about you. This about you leaving when everything else was changing, about being left behind by everyone and you being the one thing that I had half expected to work out when nothing was. This is about feeling used and forgotten. This is about not knowing and being empty. You are full of so much that I cannot see what I really miss in you. This is about you being the same as everyone and everything else. You are the embodiment of everything that is and was going on. I am not writing about you. I do not want you. I do not miss you. This is not about you.

i don’t really know how to make this beautiful

i don’t know how to create poetry from weaving together what it is like to be left behind

i don’t know how to make art out of nothing

i don’t know what to do when everything is emptied

come back come back come back come back come back come back come back come back come back come back come back come back come back come back come back come back come back come back come back come back come back come back come back come back come back come back come back come back come back come back come back come back come back come back come back come back