To the next one to love her,
some unsolicited advice:
1. I may be the first,
but I will not be the last.
2. She deserves more than
she says, and you need
to know that.
I built my home in her heart
and that was my mistake.
My world shook with every
sip she took, and the roof
wasn’t enough to shelter me.
3. Be strong and be brave.
She will love you like lightning,
so don’t be afraid of the rain.
Lastly,
Be hopeful and be kind.
What comes next is better
than sunshine in Seattle.
I wish you the best.
Apr 2, 2017
Apr 2, 2017 at 2:24 AM UTC
I can’t
taste things anymore.
Not like how I used to.
Nothing
tastes the same.
I can’t drink
the moonlight
or eat
the sunshine
that bounced off your smile.
I don’t know when I’ll
down this glass of tears
and start eating again.
I can’t sleep either;
and that’s probably
because if I did,
I’d get closer to being
okay without you.
And I don’t know what’s
scarier - the darkness,
or the fact that I never
needed you
to find the light.
Apr 7, 2016
Apr 7, 2016 at 12:53 PM UTC
He took off his glasses
to mutter away the world
To make sure that
everything, not just his
mind, was blurry, out of focus.
Because that’s how he felt.
He felt like he couldn’t wait
anymore. It was agony,
to be always waiting.
Patience only mattered
when he knew what
he was being patient for.
But now. Now, he didn’t know.
Or, he didn’t want to know.
He wanted so badly to
feel what he did in the past,
that he’s not willing to
imagine anything else being
the same or better. He’s
addicted to the taste of
sadness. It tasted like
the back of your throat
after you’ve just thrown up.
It tasted like stale air.
But for some reason, that
comforted him. Maybe a part
of him was right, and he took
solace in that. He wants to cry
he knows it. And he’s always been
on the verge of tears, ever since
that day. He’s not sure,
that’s what he keeps telling himself.
One day he will be, he hopes.
But right now, maybe he’s
okay with crying for another night.
Maybe it’s okay to be sad for another
week. But maybe it’s not. It’s been
four months now and he’s back to
writing at night, hoping that one day
someone will see these and say,
“I understand his feelings.”
Because he feels like the only person
that really understood him, isn’t there
anymore. That being forgotten is just
another possibility. Because that’s
what he’s always been afraid of.
Being forgotten. He remembers
how hard he cried when he lost
his mom at the mall. He was only
five years old, and the mall was so big.
He cried for what he thought was hours.
Why is he so scared of being forgotten?
Maybe because even if people promise
you that they won’t forget you, there’s
no way you can ever be sure, and that
uncertain feeling is what makes you
afraid. Maybe because if people
remembered him, maybe if they did,
then maybe he truly existed, and it mattered.
Why does living really matter? Why is
it that he’s crying? Why is he crying?
Why can’t he see the screen anymore
and why can’t he stop crying?
He can hear the rain outside.
It’s loud and broken.
Apr 7, 2016
Apr 7, 2016 at 12:03 AM UTC