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dove Jan 2018
“i love you, but you make me feel cold on the inside. my bones start to ache; no, not in desire. they’re trying to warn me”

“- being alone like that must have been awful
          - you say that as if i’m not still alone”

“don’t you understand that you won’t be happy until you love me? this is for you. all of this has been for you”

“i don’t have enough time”

“i thought it would be easier, you know? after all of.. this. i just thought it couldn’t get any harder, but like usual, i was wrong”

“the idea of us together makes me gag”

“what happened to you? you used to be so warm. now you’re ice. i’ve tried to thaw you out, but it’s hopeless. no one can help you anymore”

“this darkness is the only thing i can truly rely on these days”

“do you know how many times i cried over you?”
all of these sentences were either said to me or i said myself.
dove Jan 2018
i have taken
a great fall;
that is,
for you.
dove Jan 2018
my heart does not stop
you do not take my breath away
i do not feel powerless
i am not pained
because that is not how love should feel

when i see you
my heart beats twice as fast
to make sure that i’m alive
so i can see your beautiful face tomorrow
my lungs fill like balloons
(grab my hand
we can float away together)
you make me feel so powerful
i feel safe
this is love
dove Jan 2018
i started smoking
because it is the
closest thing i
have to you.
how you used
to always carry
cigarettes with you.
the smell of smoke
followed you
(traced you, held you,
touched you, loved you,
loved you, loved)
wherever you went.
i grew to like it
even though
i consciously knew
that it was wilting
away at you.
the consistency
pleased me
(i was never
one to like change)
and when you left
you took the
smoke with you
and it was the
first time
i was truly burnt.
i told myself
that i would do
to have that smell back
to be reminded
of all the good
instead of the bad ones.
so i started to smoke
and now i can’t stop.

once again
you have plagued me.
dove Jan 2018
being in love
with someone
who doesn’t
love me back
is like being
buried alive.
the dirt is
slowly seeping
into my lungs.
i’m suffocating,
yet i do not resist.
i close my eyes
and let it take me.
dove Jan 2018
"your majesty"
you would say to me
but i did not want
that title of queen
i wanted to be a knight
i did not need nor want others
to fight in my name
i can fight for myself
i can draw blood
i can
and i have
ever since you left

“i could help you
if you would just let me”
you would remark.
yes you can give me
all the band aids you have
but if you do not
have the guts
to watch me
endure the pain
of stitches
then do not bother
for i do not feel faint
in sight of blood
(i have seen my own
many times before;
personal battles
often have the most gore)
i can stitch myself
i can heal my scars
i can
and i have
ever since you left

“you are a flood
for which i drown
everyday in!”
you would yell
but i am no flood.
i am simply an ocean,
i have my dark places
which no one
has yet to explore.
i am vast and full of life.
and when you call me
“a flood”
you are denying
every beauty
i have within myself.
it is not my fault
that you don’t know
how to swim.
i can swim.
i can be more than
just your perspective.
i can
and i have
ever since you left.
i'm getting better
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