I keep meaning to give you
all the letters that I
wrote
and to
resist
this restraint, my hand holding onto
the paper
of the words
I almost told you,
felt the need to tell you,
in the silhouette of
candle flame and
sitting alone.

I'm so courageous when I'm
by myself,
and when I know what my lungs
feel like
what my fingers feel like, pinching a
pen to tell you, wholeheartedly,
the things I
will not say

I keep meaning to give you the letters
I wrote you,
I wrote you my secret and

a secret is a loss
that feels like an
ephemeral
victory

Sometimes I feel like
I know all of the sad girls
in the whole wide world.

They call me crying,
or text me in the middle
of panic attacks.

They want attention
but only for themselves so
I disappoint them.

Morally bereft;
selfish for not suffering,
or not like they do.

I am an angel,
but only by default, or
just for being here.

Only for staying
a stationary angel;
to suffer with them.

I have grown heavy,
from their tears and loneliness
and their jealousy.

I can't fall asleep,
at least easily, because
of all the sad girls.

Why? Simply that,
Somedays, It's just so
(F)un
(L)iving
(I)n
(R)omantic
(T)ragedy

Than being

(L)ost
(O)ver
(V)ulnerable
(E)motions