For awhile things were a greyscale.
I saw things on a scale from white to black. I thought the lighter the grey, the better I was feeling.

Then I met you and you made me see color. There were lavenders and turquoises and maroons and golds.

The greys were just a fog and you were the sun to clear it.

I can't tell where the sound of my lungs end and my heartbeat starts.

They blur together similarly to how his body and mine are entangled under the layers of blankets. From another perspective, no one knows who is who and what is what.

My lungs are so disappointed in me. I breathe in nicotine more often than I should.

I've poisoned my veins and liver with cheap *****.

My eyes have grown sullen and heavy. Dark bags have found refuge under my tearducts.

My head was in her lap.
Her friend was driving fast.
Too fast. Way too fast.
She wrapped her arms around me.
It was cold and late and I'm in a stranger's car.
No. I met him that morning. It's fine.
Oh god. Are we going to crash?
She hushed me.
Have I been shivering this whole time?
She laid her jacket over me as a makeshift blanket.
The car is still too fast.
The music is too loud and it's dark.
Am I dying? No it's fine. She's got me.
How long has it been since we left?
Oh ****, wasn't he drinking?
We're going to die. Why did I come with?
She tells him to slow down.
I somehow mutter out a sorry to him.
I'm laying in the backseat of a half-stranger's car.
The leather interior is sticking to me.
It's not as cold as it was before.
…
…
…
Am I still awake? I can't move.
Did I die? No, I still feel her there.
She's rubbing my back, I think.
I'm asleep. Wait am I? Yes.
I think so. It's okay.
We're at her house.
We made it.
I made it.
It's okay.

We talked again for the first time in over a year.
My heart raced as I pulled up to your small house near the busy freeway.
We talked and sat in silence, all while we chain smoked.

Not even a month later, texting you made my stomach churn,
and not even in a good way.

Your depression didn't mix well with my own.
We should have learned the first time.

I'm sorry for leaving you, I just couldn't be around you anymore.

We are critical.

We find flaws in
everything we see
because nobody
wants to write
about perfection,
even though sometimes
we wish we could just stay
staring into that
unblemished surface.

2. We are never satisfied.

We live our lives upon
mountains of
scrunched up
bits of refill and
ideas we gave up
trying to
express.

3. We never forget.

We write words about
eye contact made
three months ago
that we replay over
and over in our minds
even though it
stopped
being relevant.

4. We are fickle.**

Our emotions flash
from one
to the other
like strobe lighting that
disorientates us
until we feel as if
the world
will never be still.

5. We are exposed.

We don't know how
to keep our feelings
to ourselves so
we'll write them
down for
you to find
'accidentally'.

6. We are vulnerable.

We wear our
hearts on our sleeves
and won't lift a
muscle to fight back
if somebody tries
to break it
because we thrive
from the pain.

7. We will never stop.

We will never stop
feeling and
we will never stop
hurting,
we will never stop
breaking and
bleeding and
loving
even though the cycle
is endless
and we know what's
coming next.


We are addicted
to agony,
but we agonise
for the art.