If you were mine,
I’d grab your hand,
Hold your head,
Look into your eyes,
And ask you to breath.

If you were mine,
I’d tell you how you are ok,
And remind you that it’s healthy to heal.
I’d beg you to sit and rest.

But you chose to shut me out,
so now I watch as you spiral into oblivion,
As everyone laughs and cheers in glee,
I hear your scream rise above the rest.
I cringe at your violent moments,
And silently beg fans to stop calling your mania joy.

And as the crowd flocks around you,
I see the energy in your brain,
charge the wild in your eyes,
And I desperately pray that you are not as alone
as you were when you were mine.

I wish I had the ability
To speak words that haunt you
In the way that yours
hang in the front of my mind.

I spilled neon orange paint
all over my favorite black jeans
while mixing your dumb color.
(because I'm dramatic like that)

I couldn't help but think,
there's an analogy somewhere in there,
and in how preoccupied I am getting it out before it sets,
even though I  know the damage is already done.


But instead of wasting my time on understanding it,
I just covered it with black and called it a day.
Knowing I'm still going to paint in these pants again.

I once said your voice was ramen and computer keys,
and I've decided that it's fitting,
as it punctuates in your rushed excitement,
and drips with words of inspiration.

And tonight, as I spill out my heart to you
over the binary code as my eyes slowly wilt,
I long for the day when we can do it in whispers across a dark room.

Or back in the bright night,
with the energy of sharing secret writings still flowing in our veins,
Or shared excitement over the one,
whose voice was rich like black coffee,
Or the day we shared chicken nuggets and a headline,
and I decided that I liked you.

Thank you for your words,
dragonfly girl,
for they bring my heart to peace,
and I feel known.