Maybe it’s just me.
But our talks feel one sided.
I truly believe that conversation is what keeps bridges strong.
But bridges take two people to hold up.

Put a gun in your mouth and then ask if I’m okay.
It’s hard to speak, isn’t it? When death is in your head
And by the way, no.
I’m not okay.
I’ve had a gun in my mouth ever since my grandfather died.
The gun keeps me from talking and sounding insane, but I still write of death every single ******* day.
And It’s not because I’m suicidal.
It’s not because I’m edgy.
I’m just scared.
I don’t want to leave nothing behind.

I can’t tell you why I’m writing this.
I can tell you that it feels right.
I’m listening to your record to get a feel for you and I’m lighting coffee scented candles to help me miss you more clearly. I’m scared to write.
I miss you so much sometimes.
Even when you’re right next to me.
It’s annoying.
I always doubt myself around you.
I think you think I call you pretty too much.
You are so ******* pretty.
I feel distant, but then you look up at me and I’m reminded that I am an idiot for missing someone so near to me.
Then I think of how ******* lucky I am.
And how perfect you are.
And I go home and light candles and write of how I wish I had the guts to say “I love you.”
And how I wish I had the guts to believe that you would say it back.
You can call me a coward for putting it in writing, but it’s still true.
I love you.