i feel myself going numb again, and it's nice, and it's scary.

i just wish you'd come rescue me,

but i know i'm on my own.

besides, even if you wanted to, you'd probably be too late.

your lips,
painted the finest shade of crimson
gently tighten,
preventing the truth from pouring out

your eyes,
lined the smokiest tone of gray
slowly close,
shielding the pain from exposure

your collar bones,
protruding the way you always dreamed of
shy away,
covered by endless scarves

your vertebrae,
resembling the perforations of a page
sink down,
wrapped in layers of fabric

the measures taken
to hide the mess you've become
can't manage to speak louder
than the demons in your head

because i miss you.

i miss you so much.
i miss your hands
the hands i used to write poetry about

before i started feeling empty again.


and now i feel alive, but it hurts so bad.


and i want to be near you
and smell your scent
and rub my face against your chest

and feel the skin on your back
against the palms of my hands


and your lips against mine


and that's why i don't want you to read this.

because it means that i'm wrong
and scared
and weak.


but if you read this
you would look at me and tell me that i'm beautiful and strong



and i would just keep being angry at myself.




i just want to stop missing you.
please don't read this.



i miss you.