The problem is that I was taught
to love God before I learned
to love myself.

I can only love that which looks like me because I have been made in the image of God
so I needed you to look like Him to look like me

so I could love you too.

Every love is a choice, I can love Him
as much as I love you because
I can choose to love you too.

I can say ‘I love you too’ because it is easier than saying ‘I love you’ directly.

We don’t truly know what love means

So I kiss the lips of a nihilist
because that is the love I learned to give.

I love you too but I love you, too.

You know the one?

Where I am walking a tightrope, hundreds of miles up in the air, between two oceans and my heavy body swaying violently from left to right as I am slowly losing my balance trying not to fall into the waters we used to wash away our sins.

I can feel the wind running wildly through my hair as I am looking down despite the cliché advice people tell you when they know you're afraid of heights.

But I can't help it.

I see you all the way down there, sweeping the floor of your empty living room because you refuse to keep any furniture. That's where you and I cross our legs in silent protest against those who think floors were made only for standing.

Our little sandbox. Where you and I talk like we get paid weekly to do so. That's probably why you keep them so clean.

You say 'Maybe' a lot.

I think 'Maybe' is this little alternate universe shaped like a handbag where we shovel all the things we don't feel like dealing with after your morning coffee.

Maybe that's why we're so happy.

You don't even like coffee. You just like what it does to your body. You take your milk and sugar with coffee.

While our time together may be a happy memory to look back on, I'm wildly distracted by mother nature laying waste to my hair as if I didn't just spend a whole 45 minutes getting it just right.

It's cold up here.

I finally lost my balance. Simply because you looked up at me and smiled and in so doing, balloon on the loose, there I went.

And now I am met with a mouthful of salt.

All I give you are middle fingers like ornaments, gifts for you to only look at and you smile anyway, you smile for the both of us because I am hiding mine and you know how bad I am at doing that.

Luckily you taught me how to swim.

Letting go is accepting that something better is waiting for you on the other side.

It's realising that the person who, you hope, will take a bullet to the chest for you is actually the one behind the gun,

Even though you still have time to jump out the way you find yourself debating wether you even want to.

See, we very quickly forget that closeness is a lot more hurtful and damaging than we lead ourselves to believe.

It’s the valentines day morning in the kitchen alone with a cup of coffee, in your pink fluffy robe, fervently reminding yourself that the only love that matters is the one you give yourself yet you know that is a complete load of ****.

It feels cold outside but it’s really not, that’s just you.

You used to be my pink skies and cotton candy clouds but now everything is grey, rainy and miserable.

And it makes me want to cry.

We're going in a different direction now and I am not the one who pulled the steering wheel.

I no longer see my open fields flooded far and wide with cherry blossoms and all the green sparrows have flown away.

They are crying now and I can no longer hear your voice.

Instead, it is all a barren wasteland. And the sand is not even at least the beautiful orange the Sahara desert always is.

All the portraits in my castle have gone blank. The castle itself, war torn, brought down to rubble as a result of the battle I fought within myself.

I may have lost the battle but I have not yet lost the war. I hope.

Unfortunately, our worlds did not collide as subtly as I had prayed. It was a violent mishap, an event outside of time.

I sit silently and alone in the centre of my dreams as I have witnessed them being violently washed away by ocean waves with my hands tied and bound by my admiration for you.

You like beaches right? That has to mean something, maybe a reason for you to stay a little longer.

You are my Dystopia.

But dystopia is subject to interpretation.

And what is yours will never be mine and what is mine you do not even want at all.

My dystopia sounds like it belongs in a book, but we all know how long that lasts.




*Be sure to check out Utopian Dystopia Pt. 1!

A silence with you
Is not
a silence

But a moment rich
with peace

And a woman who held a babe against her ***** said, "Speak to us of
Children."

And he said:

Your children are not your children.

They are the sons and daughters of Life's longing for itself.

They come through you but not from you,

And though they are with you, yet they belong not to you.

You may give them your love but not your thoughts.

For they have their own thoughts.

You may house their bodies but not their souls,

For their souls dwell in the house of tomorrow, which you cannot visit,
not even in your dreams.

You may strive to be like them, but seek not to make them like you.

For life goes not backward nor tarries with yesterday.

You are the bows from which your children as living arrows are sent forth.

The archer sees the mark upon the path of the infinite, and He bends you
with His might that His arrows may go swift and far.

Let your bending in the archer's hand be for gladness;

For even as he loves the arrow that flies, so He loves also the bow that
is stable.