"im an open book, ask me whatever you want."

I smile,
because I am a tattered, paperback book.
Read too many times and never put back into the proper place.
Pages folded over from people marking their place, yet never seeming to come back to it.
Pages ripped away from the seam as if they never existed.
Spine falling apart from people opening, reading the first few pages then closing.
Opening and closing, opening and closing, opening and closing.
Cover faded out, barely able to see the first word, yet some people still manage.

But you, I see, are a hardcover.
Protected but willing to share your words with everyone.
Though only those that really manage to care, come back to read through the ending.
No marked places because you've told people to use bookmarks.
You are your own story. No pages missing.
You are my favorite book,
maybe its time to rewrite mine.

I have a bad manner of repressing.
of swallowing my feelings whole,
because they start as a lump in my throat and stay there
for days, weeks, months, until I either swallow them whole,
or they get the best of me.

The best of my,
"I'm just tired,"
of
"I just need to get through the week,"
of my
"I'm just not feeling up to it."

"feel it," I whisper to myself,
because feeling is much better than repressing for months at a time,
feel the moment, and control the emotions
before the emotions control how you feel.

I don’t know who I love.
Sleeping with you, head on your shoulder, makes me feel safe and secure. When you caress my face, it feels as if I’ve never known love until now. Yet the same hand that caresses my face ever so lovingly, is the same hand that I am terrified of. When you whisper sweet nothings into my ear, makes me feel so loved, yet....worthless. The same voice that I’ve fallen so in love with is the same one I fear, when it starts to get louder and more fierce. When things start flying across the room and everything is so strewn, then when I least expect it, a sharp blow across my face. Cheek red, burning, then mere seconds later, the only thing caressing my face is my tears.


I don’t know who I love.
Sleeping with you, head on your shoulder, makes me feel safe and secure. When you caress my face, it feels as if I’ve never known love until now. I’ve known you longer than I’ve known him, yet the moment never feels right. WE never feel right. I tell you I have feelings for you, you say that I am too young and there is nothing to feel. Yet, months later, out of the blue. “I love you.” I tell you, it is not love, its lust. You try ever so hard to convince me that you love me, but I feel you are only trying to convince yourself. After quite a while, I’ve finally realized who I love.


me.

3AM
3AM thoughts are not a thing of beauty.
3AM thoughts haunt you.
They do not care if you have school the next day.
They do not care if you have to wake up early the next day.
Hell, they do not care if you've stayed up the past week because of them.
3AM thoughts are romanticized.
They are not something you want.
They are not something you need.
They are not something you desire.
3AM thoughts chill you to the bone
They cause anxiety
They cause bad grades
They cause chaos
3AM thoughts cause tears.
They do not fill you with happiness
They do not fill you with hope
They do not fill you with future goals.
3AM thoughts haunt you
With "what ifs"
With "why wasn't I good enough"
With "will I ever be good enough"
3AM thoughts fill you with questions that will never be answered.
"What if I was skinnier"
"What if I was prettier"
"What did I do"
3AM thoughts are all about you.