you’re awake
when I’m asleep

you’re asleep
when I’m awake

slowly but pretty surely
we fall into a pattern
called ‘familiarity’

I truly wish that
I could’ve been more
Than a mere insignificant being
You wouldn’t even blink an eye for

Or perhaps I wish that
I could’ve been more
Of a human you could
Bring yourself to love a little more

These thoughts inch
and poke away
At the foundation
I’ve built my sanity on
Especially more so
on these lonely nights

Where I sometimes think
I’m stronger than I am
But then think maybe
I’m less that I thought
And then I wish
I was more than just this

But why would it even matter?

When all I’m capable of is
having you face your back against me

And I’m nothing more than
a hollow shell of
the woman I used to be

And you’re nothing more than
the hollow shell of
the man I used to love

And yet despite all of that,
I still ******* do.

Eighteenth November,
I asked if he still loved me;
His eyes were cold
& seemingly devoid of any sort of love
he once felt for me

"I'm not sure if I still love you,"
"You suffocate me,"
"I'm sick of seeing you 24/7"

What was I expecting?

That very night, I cried to myself
& wrote a four-paged letter.
It smelt of whisky and cigarettes
But even more so like a breakup with myself.  

Nineteenth November,
I watched him as he slept;
He’d looked as endearing as he’d since day one.

"I love you," he mumbled half-asleep.
"Can we not fight anymore?" I half-begged.
"I'm sorry, please don't move out...." he said.

Six words
were all it took for you
to change my mind;
how very easy?
I thought to myself,
running back into your arms,
as I always do.

and you slip away
like grains in a hourglass
but I know you'd come back again

as you always do.

One day all my inspirations just... disappeared
I couldn't paint, I couldn't write, I couldn't feel.

I may have fell asleep for an inch of a second,
but who'd dared to rob me of my dreams?

I couldn't explain it if I tried.

One day all my words just... made no sense
I couldn't paint, I couldn't write, I couldn't feel.

These words they used to string together,
magically and easily on their own.

Now I can't paint, I can't write, I can't feel.
It hurts to remain seated on the edge of my bed,
casually typing away at my keyboard, letter by letter.

These words they do not string together,
magically and easily on their own.

It is more than you think.

I've more to say but it aches as I breathe
my heart shrinks as my chest narrows
my skin rips as my nails claws

over
and
over
and
over
again

And it hurts but the words string together suddenly.

This feels so familiar,
I know it all too well.

Why does it always have to hurt for things to make sense?
This doesn't make sense, at all.

— c.s wondering