Why is it that we seem to make our beds in sadness?
We hate the feeling, yet find some sort of comfort in the pain.
It's strange how easy it is to become used to the discomfort.
It's odd that we would simply let it waltz into our lives and take over.

Pain, sadness, detachment.

At least they of all things are consistent.

I think it's ridiculous that after four weeks of no communication you're still the first thing on my mind when I wake up and the only thing I can think about when I try to go to sleep.
I can't help be rehash old wounds, morning and night.
I just have so many questions.
There were so many things you left unanswered.
So many lies, that you claimed to be true.

I knew it was over before it even began, but that doesn't help me sleep.

Maybe things always end badly for me, because that's all I expect.
I didn't expect a happy ending.
I did't expect that you would actually be honest with me.
I didn't expect to grow so attached.
I didn't expect to be so hurt.

None of this was part of the plan.

I don't want you back, and I couldn't let you back in even if I wanted to.

I just want answers.

Was it easy to walk away?
Was I easy to fool?
Did you get what you came for?
Did you mean any of what you said?
When did I stop making you smile?
What changed?
Was any of it real?
Do you think about me?
Did I mean anything at all?

I just want answers.

you carry your past on your shoulders
and never understand why people ask
why you no longer smile like you used to

I don't write love poems anymore;
I sleep until noon and eat *** cakes for breakfast

I don't sing love songs anymore;
I cut off all my hair and dyed it a color he told me never to do

I don't read love stories anymore;
I pierced my nose and ate mushrooms underneith the stars

I don't write love notes anymore;
I read my books at diners in the middle of the night and paint just because I can

I live with tenacity and I haven't had a regret since I left


I'm glad I don't write love poems anymore

I am the world's best liar.
I'm not saying this because I forthrightly lie, no. Not to the people around me.

I lie to myself. I lie because I have to. Because how else am I supposed to get myself out of bed? How else do I live half alive and stuck in my mind?

   I tell myself I'm fine.

            That's the best lie I can think of

Today, I drove through a town filled with our ghosts.
I can almost see us flying over the tracks on 99 where you raced a train once, I can almost hear us screaming our heads off to Blink 182 lyrics. I can almost see us on the street late at night while you ran and I biked back to your house from my work.
I can almost see us walking around the mall, hand in hand. Making out in the back of the movie theater when you were supposed to be at school.
I can almost feel you beside me, laying on the couch with me. I can almost hear "I love you" in my ear.
The moon reflects all of the ghosts. The ones of you and me. The ghosts of what was and what could have been and what could be.
I can almost hear you now saying "don't get ahead of yourself." But this is how I process. And these ghosts need to be put to rest already.