I may not love you to the moon and back
but
I still cherish the bulky craters you have left
on
the surface of my withered heartstrings,
oh the wondrous perils of heartache.

© fey (18/10/24)

sorry, not sorry,
for being me.
despite the pains and trials,
there's no one else
I'd prefer to be.

I know my scars,
and idiosyncrasies,
they're frustrating
to no end,
but then, that's me.

I hate the phrase
“You are only given what you can handle”
It negates everyone who has drowned in their pain
Everyone who is told they will burn for who they are
Everyone who was traumatized as a child
Everyone who has lost people to their demons
Everyone who has burned bridges to protect others
Everyone who goes through hell to keep fighting
You may be “only given what you can handle”
But you shouldn’t have to handle that

there is a truth along all paths
a piecing together of life

a jigsaw is slowly solved
a knowing deep within all spheres

setting out once again
a new perspective takes shape

the union of simplicity
a way to be, a way of love.

I miss the days
where our final kisses
were to bid each other goodnight,
not good bye.

amor tardius occidit
We should have
been so much
more.
Now we're just a torn
page
in a finished book.
The memories are
fading,
but the pain still lingers.
I still smell you on
my fingers.
I still taste you on
my tongue.
Love kills slowly;
a backward glance from
an invisible god.
I'm a bird that sings,
but cannot fly.
I'm the ticking of a
clock.
A rocking chair.

tick

tock...

mental illness is the
most expensive thing
i've ever owned but
never wanted