we sit in my car in silence and i reach for the lighter but only because of the chance your skin might come in contact with mine. you tell me about her and i know she doesn't deserve you because she doesn't know how lucky she is to be in a bed with you, skin on skin on skin. i pour my heart out to you and when you leave we hug and you smell just the same as you did three years ago. you smell like poetry and the sunrise and endless youth.

i can't even write anymore because all the blood you spilled when you punctured my heart has flooded into my brain. my words come out muffled but on paper they just look like your smile.

I wake up every morning with a throbbing skull and I tell everyone it's hereditary but I know it's just you in the back of my head telling me you don't love me anymore. I guess when my heart of glass shattered you picked up the pieces and have carried them around with you ever since because you seem to be the only person with a match to the missing parts, and after giving you the only section that's still whole you have the nerve to tell me about her. "She means nothing" and I believe you but that doesn't matter when I'm the one who trusted in you when everyone else called you a fake.

She's probably never even noticed your eyes.

That night haunts me like I might as well have committed a ******. Your tongue tastes like a longing for cigarettes and those last four shots of "just having fun" but I'm not supposed to know that. You proceed to tell me I'm a dream come true right before she calls you because she had a nightmare. How ironic it is that she runs to you for comfort when you're the one creating lies as you speak through the phone at 6am with me lying by your side. I wake up from only an hour of sleep and find myself in your bed and whisper "it's not real" as you roll over and pull me closer as if I'm yours. I'll go about my day with a hangover in the place of my dignity and occasionally the memories come up with the alcohol. I'm starting to think it was actually the thoughts that made me feel so sick.

Starvation feels like recovery
And food feels like relapse

When you’re driving to the house of the only person you love and the only things standing between hurting them and keeping them safe are the words under your tongue and the time it takes to get there, your own life suddenly becomes unimportant.
Not once in my life has suicide been a thought that I would actually consider. But when you’re driving alone and it’s raining and the person you would do anything for is going to despise you in a matter of seconds and you don’t even blame them because you hate yourself too, it becomes an option. I am screaming at myself from inside this machine that only I have control of and I remember whispering, “do it. You deserve to die.” I have never hated myself a fraction of the amount I did in this moment, and for the first time in my life, the only thing stopping me from destroying everything I had ever become were the people I had already hurt. I decided one stab wound was enough.

we're told almost every day to never be selfish, but in a world like ours, how can we not be? even calling this world "ours" is selfish, but no one ever mentions that. do what you want. be who you are. be selfish. because in the end, the only person who you'll always be forced to impress, is you.

is it completely wrong of me to say
i'm tired of being in love
with only one person?
growing up is supposed to be fun,
but what if you feel
all of that fun
is passing right by your window?
is it selfish to stop building
what i've been building for a year
to start from scratch on something
i'm not even sure is real?