Things feel sticky.
Soggy.
Itchy.

I feel frayed.
Broken.
Chafed.

I want to fade.
Pause.
Sleep.

Every memory
is a painting in the gallery of my mind.

Will you be my curator?

Use your lips to numb mine.
Use your hands to smooth away my rough bits
like sandpaper softening wood.

Char up the walls of my mind
so my flaws melt away.

Mince my mouth
when I talk too much.

Peel off my scars
as if they were stickers.

Cut me up
and put me in a jar.

Before I touched you
I knew you felt right.

I knew I'd write you cheesy poems.
I knew you were just what I needed.
I knew I wanted you every night
For the rest of my life.

*"I know you're the one I'm meant to love."

I can feel my heartbeat in my fingertips
as I read back through yesterday's journal entry.

I want to stand under the spray of the shower with all my clothes on.
Perhaps while the water is cold
to give me a thrill.

It's like lying with your head beneath the blanket
just long enough to labor your breathing.
How long are you willing to bare the discomfort?

How long can you hold your breath?

Boo-boos heal if the right person kisses them.

Yes, I do like being vulnerable.
Because it enables me to still believe in magic.
It enables me to fully give myself to a person,
to love without withholding,
to love the way I want to.

He didn't see me.
I only existed when I was naked.
Life resumes full speed when I get dressed.
But I wanted it to stop just long enough for him to see me.
Really see me.

Now I'm cursed with longing.
Longing for validation.
Longing for someone to confirm that I exist.

If I don't get the acknowledgement,
maybe I'll disappear.
Maybe I was never here...

and that terrifies me.