i never write about the good anymore.
maybe from the fact
that something
so clearly temporary
does not deserve my words.
or maybe,
i'm just afraid to look back
at something that once was,
that might never be again.

I always had a sense of entitlement
when it came to dreaming of a lover.
That there would be someone
who puts me first.
But I realized with time
sometimes you have to be that someone
who puts others first.
That was such a terrifying and distressing thought.
And suddenly all these heroes
became somewhat out-of-the-world, larger-than-life
someone I can never be.


To realize the pain
it must have taken
to scrap down their lives
for the sake of a person
whose love can’t be trusted or guaranteed.
How one must endure their own foolishness.
How one must look away from our own self.
Knowing all the while
that all this, built
by sacrifices,
can be broken in no time
with one word of hers,
that can end your suffering
and renew your struggle.
That there is no way out.
To cling
or to leave.
And to suffer each minute
no matter what you choose.


It seemed so tiring
It seemed so cruel
to ask someone for that.

// i’m terrified that next year i might hate winter; that the glow of the lights will remind me so deeply of you eyes that i’ll get that agonising ache in my chest again.

it’s always been my least favourite season, but for a while my dear, you changed that.

there was always something about the weight of the air,

thick and heavy with coldness and fog.

you made me realise that it’s the only time of year that everything tastes ever so slightly of cinnamon and ginger; you tasted like cigarettes and bubblemint gum.

after you left i took up smoking for a week purely because it tasted like you, maybe also because the burning in my chest was the closest feeling to being in love with you.

in my mind there is just us and you aren’t here to leave.

you whisper into my skin and i don’t cough up your words in the shower the next morning.

in my mind you don’t kiss me to forget and i don’t shake when you touch me.

the lights don’t stay off anymore,

you look me in the eyes as you **** me.

warm bedsheets tangled in a heap of exhausted limbs.

                                                 
his bookshelf was splitting at the seams;

bukowski

plath

keats and frost.

he asked me what i thought about love and i told him; it’s the bits of us that we give away with no sense of expectation or consequences. when you feel this empty you’ll do anything to fill the void in your ribcage.

we feel more pain than we know what to do with

so, we paint, draw, write and sing.

anything really, anything that helps us cling to the edges of humanity.

that was the thing, you always knew that you could count on me to get down on my knees for you babe, didn’t you? //