Sometimes I like to hold my own hand. I like to hold it/ in a way a lover may. & i realise.
my hands are so small and delicate why don't I have somones hand to hold? Better yet, why do I invite literally anyone to break my hands?

When I look at my hands I see every memory of every boy I have loved. I see the very moment I held a man's hand.
How the spaces between our fingers fit perfectly, in harmony with one another. How we shared a very special moment before our lips met in the dark of a theatre surrounded by other experienced lovers and we just looked like kids.
You could've snapped my wrists, it would've been so easy to bruise me but you didn't. You were kind, you were gentle.

You were kind.
You were gentle

But now when I reach for your hands/ because let's face it my hands have such a great memory and they know every curve and nook of your palm. Your palm is empty.
I reach and I stretch so far but you keep on walking and I barely get to brush your hand.
Then the question lingers/ so thick I could cut it with a knife.
Have you forgotten me already?
Forgotten the passionate night spent searching for our intertwined fingers that wrap themselves in knots/the very same that stroked my hair so sweetly until I fell asleep/that held me so tightly as you whispered my name to calm my nightmares

These memories. They're trapped in my skin and you the culprit/placed them there so gently. Rattling like bees and I want to them free.
So I cut myself open and watch as every piece of you leaks out me.

No doubt my hands have only suppressed it's muscle memory. and if they saw you again, they'd wander around you.
They'd know, the shape to take as they patiently wait for your hands to learn the curve of my waist.

Because although you never touched me with the same delicacy.
You still touched me, a sign that I still exist.

I've been thinking, a dangerous past time, you are quite convenient, I almost can't tell the difference,
if I close my eyes it's similar to kissing him, just not as tender. Our lips crash together whereas, his lips, they walk from my shoulder up to my neck, across my cheek until by chance they find themselves right in front of my own.

I can't ******* though, it's the one thing you can't get right. Not that I can ask you to be like him, it's a bit rude innit?
And I especially can't ask you to talk like him, you can't do the accent anyways. That, and you're not as sweet with your words.
My point is,
                                    You are not the answer.

I want someone to love and be loved like that but I'm me and guys like that don't exist or

                                          I'm afraid they wouldn't love me.

I want to do a lot right now and in my head I'm doing them.

I'm smashing every single window I see.

I'm bashing my head repeatedly on the pavement, until my brain is rewired correctly.

I'm throwing the new expensive mug I just bought on the floor.

I'm picking up the shards from said mug and smashed windows and ripping my wrists wide open.

I'm laying on the train tracks, my innards splayed out, a spectacle for everyone to admire.

Step 1: get him to talk as much as possible because ******* that accent is so ****.

Step 2: get him to open up about his traumatic childhood that even he, is unaware of. Don't forget his voice is so dangerous he could lull you to sleep.

Step 3: Try to fix him. Then hurt yourself in the process.

Step 4: spend incredibly romantic and ****** nights together. Get REALLY close.

Step 5: DO NOT BE YOURSELF. He will realise that he deserves better.

Step 6: drop hints. Like A LOT of hints, he's too oblivious to get them.

Step 7: let him use you, because you'll do anything to make him stay.

Step 8: hurt yourself. Sacrifice your heart for this god. Bleed for him. Cry for him. Never let him out of your mind

Step 9: let him go

If you let me,
I could be your best friend.

If you let me,
I could be there for you.

If you let me,
I could let you into my heart.

If you let me,
I would come back round.

If you let me,
I can be the silliest and goofiest.

If you let me be me.

If only you let me,
I might let you in too.

I love being in Love but,
I'm not particularly fond of people.
Perhaps I haven't found "the one" even though I don't believe he/she exists, we just settle for the person who annoys us the least.
I don't like relationships.
Simple as that really, it's all good at the beginning but then I just get bored.
I didn't realise it hurt people that much until now.
Then again, I didn't realise how much I prefer the crush feeling and the tense on edge butterfly feeling, until now.

I'm in love with Love.
And she (yes, she) is the most beautiful, blossoming, aspiring, inspiring thing I have ever known.
She is all I've ever deserved.

When you told me, I wanted to punch you the **** out
I wanted to cry; to tear everything off the walls.
I wanted to climb out of my skin and watch someone else go through the pain.
The pain of loving someone too much, too soon and not being enough.

Wait, i'm not done yet.

When I thought of us. It was just us. No future. Just us.
And that, was the most beautiful idea I'd ever gotten stuck on. But you're gone.
That was hard to write.
You're a ghost.
I just had the most wonderful night of my life and you expect me to just leave?
You're a sick sadist.
Get help.

Wait! One more thing.

Why am I sat here in my favourite cafe. waiting for you?
Hoping you'll use your initiative to come back for me?
I want to see you casually stroll in, surprise me with flowers (which no one has ever done before.) and kiss me like you mean it.
Please pick me.

Pick me.

I'd never thought I would miss you
but here I am!
You see, missing you is odd
because I was so adamant that
I didn't need you.
Missing you is like
saying 'ouch' even though
there's no sign of being hurt.

I don't quite understand it
if I'm honest...
I wanted this
but I know we don't belong together.
Maybe I miss things being easy.
Missing you is
a bittersweet ache, that I'm addicted to.

It's hard to get my thoughts coherent
is this how you felt?
I wish I could ask you for help,
but it's not my place anymore.
I wish I believed your words
that dragged me to stay.
Because if I just had a little faith,
maybe we wouldn't be where we are today.

Yes, we've taken different roads
but for some reason,
my heart sometimes calls out.
It calls out to someone not that far away
but is now unknown.
I don't want to be strangers,
but you just feel like a distant memory
I like to think you don't think about me.
It makes breathing a lot easier.

I like to think you don't think about me.
It makes living,
It makes existing,
feel absolutely misplaced.

Missing you is a weird sensation,
can't say I'm accustomed to this feeling.
It's like being asked a question
that you don't know the answer to.

I don't know what it is,
I'm not sure if it is even you I miss.
I think you're just something comfortable,
someone familiar,
and when I feel lost or confused,
I feel like running to you.
I guess it's because,
you're all I know, or at least knew...

Nowadays, I am a particularly content person.
I write, I study, I watch, I socialise (but only on Wednesdays)
and I am alone.
I have officially finished with the nasty business of a relationship, in fact, I don't think I'm relationship material at all.
All in all, I'm okay with where I am in life.

But at night,
I have to close my bedroom door.
I have to close it as soon as I turn out the lights, so the ghosts of my past regrets don't come sneaking in and come creeping into my head while I sleep.
I must keep them out of me, it's not my fault you see.
I tried so hard to help them all but I'm not as strong as I seem.

I accept my life of sin and solitude.
I'm happy this way, honestly, it's the truth.
You have to believe me, you must.

I fell in love with John Doe.
I fell in love with an American guy.

So, John Doe
Right now, I'm looking at you with rose tinted glasses and you're probably a bad person with a lot of skeletons in your closet.
But you make me want to never stop kissing you because I haven't felt this since I was born.
When I constantly watch you being content it's like watching the sunset go down and the antagonist eventually falls in love but. Not. Just. Yet.

So American guy,
Please

Keep leaving butterfly kisses on my back and I'll keep calling it love.
And note that I'll always give you a second-
Third-
Fourth-
Fifth-
                      Chance.