I wasn't supposed to be your passing fancy—
Your pretty little doting thing
who heels to your every beck and call
and reels and daydreams obsessively—
I wasn’t supposed to succumb to romanticizing notions
at all;
I wasn’t meant to fall
in love with a stranger who’s impossible to love
because you’re way the **** over there
living a life while I’m in the corner of my room sketching out your
holy doves—
Tell me: how is this fair?
That I can’t have you and hold you and have you hold me
I can’t tell if you’ve actually grown distant
or bored or indifferent or
have this secret building desire to just sign off
and flee—
I’m always pining away for you,
I hope you’d see
That my heart has always been yours
And it’s breaking in your hands,
Ultimately.

I've been trying to write something of substance for quite some time now,
trying to collect fresh thoughts from newer moments of you
and rearrange them into phrases that would gift me a new remarkable piece of the puzzle that is the immeasurable complexity of your soul.
I've been trying to bottle up this obtrusive, demanding feeling of utter awe that comes when you and I climb into our honesty and wear it to bed, side-by-side.
I've been trying to backtrack slightly, wishing so desperately (though stoically!) for the return of those painfully dire professions of unadulterated romance, reminiscing in the saturation of your love letters and how the color red is breathed into me time after time to remind me how powerfully you've shifted the balance of my life.
I love you, I love you, by god, do I love you.
My fears are still the same, though, Darling, and I feel that with the redness of passion shall also come a redness of a quality that pertains to homicidal gore,
for you have, still, that scalpel in your hands,
and my heart blooms every moment of my life, not for its love of me, but for the hope that it may one day bloom for the last time cradled in your blood-soaked palms.
I've been trying to say anything else for a week but nothing will break from the gates and give me a solid night's sleep anymore.
I can't tell you how mad you've actually made me.
Though I do dare to hope that I've evoked similar sentiments in you.

YOUR LIFE IS JUST ONE BIG JOKE,

AND YOU KNOW WHAT?





My heart was the punchline.

I'm wondering when you're going to finally open the door


so you can read the
eviction notice

I taped on the other side of it.