You were there. How am I supposed to act like I have no one to talk to about this... thing.. when you were there? You went through it, too. Is it killing you, too? I buried it but I guess not deep enough. It has been fighting me because it doesn't want to stay in - it wants to scream, it wants to cry. It wants to cry for days. But if I let myself cry I'm not sure I would stop before we drowned.
I think I might miss you. And I decided if you call again, I won't hang up this time. I thought for a moment you might see this and call, but then I remember it's the only thing you know nothing of. You can't see these words.
I think I might wish you did.

Lost,
gone,
away
forever.
I don't know why I'm so angry.
It's not as if you could have known better.
I miss you so much,
more every day.
I never knew you,
but I feel such pain.
I wish I had known you,
I wish you were here.
Nothing would matter,
at least something would be clear.
You were perfect to me, even when I wasn't sure.
You didn't deserve this. You were so pure.
I miss you so much,
more every day.
It doesn't get easier.
Time doesn't heal pain.

i wonder if you honestly thought that i didn't know all my flaws when you were screaming them at me.
i did. i knew. i still have bad habits, but they aren't as bad. i know you probably don't care.
i stopped ripping my flesh with blades out of pencil sharpeners
but not long enough ago for all of wounds to have healed yet.
and nothing goes up my nose anymore, or in my veins,
but now i sleep too much and eat even worse than i did before.
and i can't seem to stop biting my nails because i have no clue what i'm doing until they're all ripped away and hurt like hell.
the rest of my life is like that, too.
i wonder if you ever wondered why i never told you all the things you did wrong.
i won't waste your time telling you now.
but you had bad habits, too. you had your flaws.
i hear you put your fists down
but now you spend your nights in new york
with bottles and bloodshot eyes
or on little stages singing your songs about me.

tell her she is the girl you dreamed of.
tell her that her scars don't matter,
and repeat it over and over.
think of every little thing you love about her,
then put it in a letter under her pillow.
tell her just how you've planned out your future with her.
make sure she knows it was all for her, about her.
tell her how much you love her every single day
and never stop trying to find new ways.

you were so used to hiding everything
from everyone,
you didn't know what to do
once someone knew all your secrets.

They do not tell you how awful sadness is.
When they romanticize heartbreak and romanticize depression,
they just forgot to mention that it is actually really, really terrible.
And all the little girls grow up wanting to fall
and fall and fall until they spend their nights crying and lonely
because the movies and the books,
they all made it look so meaningful and pretty
and grown up.
They do not tell you how it just sits like a knot in your stomach
and sometimes makes you feel sick
and sometimes feels like all the fallen tears took your soul with them.
They just show you it happens and they tell you it’s supposed to.
All the little girls grew up and fell
and got their hearts broken for it
and found out it’s pointless and ugly
and juvenile
and it hurts.
They find out how awful it is and they do very much wonder why nobody ever told them. They wonder if they just didn’t listen. They wonder if it’s their fault
and they feel stupid.

why do you have to be sad before you appreciate happy? why does that burning inspiration only come when you are in darkness? why do I fill pages while a knot of sadness sits in my stomach? why do the urges to pour out feelings no longer come while I am enjoying my time, myself, my love? why does happiness stomp out creativity like a cigarette in an ashtray and sadness lights it back up with some addictive flame? yes… the sadness might make you sink low, low, low, but that’s where the passion is. when you are low and you don’t understand, you either write about it, draw it out, paint it into vision, you express it in some way, or you **** yourself. you have to do something with all those raw feelings. what about happiness though? happiness is so bright and special, why don’t I want or need to express that? is my happy less than everyone else’s? why are things so right when I’m so broken? I only understand myself in sadness. happiness makes me question everything. sadness feels like being in love. are those the only two things I can really feel? sadness and love?… the only times I feel alive, the only times I feel like me are when I have something to write about, something to consume me in 4am thoughts, something that makes it all so real, to make me need to get it out and appreciate the intensity in another form.