If you are afraid of the unrequited, there is a chance you might have learned it from a parent. and you were probably young; children are too impressionable. it lingered in the air and echoed through the silence when you asked your mom when you were going to see dad again. the word “unrequited” is a taste bud on the back of your tongue that will always remind you how even the sweetest things turn sour.

If you are afraid of the unrequited, you will start to type a message to your friends because the loneliness has become to heavy, but you will always be stopped by the sour taste of trying to swallow your pride.

If you are afraid of the unrequited, you might apologize for yourself every day and tell people that you wouldn’t blame them if they cut you off. maybe being alone will feel a little easier if you are certain you did something to deserve it.

If you are afraid of the unrequited, you might go out in public to make sure you are seen,

talk to yourself to know that you have a voice,

watch strangers converse to convince yourself that everybody has somebody, even you,

you might write poetry to try and teach yourself the lessons on the love that was never requited to you.

They are not thinking
about you - do yourself a
favor - go to sleep

4:49 PM
20/12/21

I never knew love before seeing him—
a beauty under the southern night sky—
as he danced, his strong body pliant and slim,
to the tunes of a distant guitar.

I never knew love before seeing him
with his heels on the pavement click-clacking.
As he flares his dress, goes to a spin,
with a rose in his hair – he is striking.

Each step, each clap – I am at his mercy.
Each beat, each dance – he is all I can see.
I'm lost, I'm in love, I'm down on my knee –
each time I pray that he also sees me.

He asked her what it's like living with anxiety.

She smiled sadly, "It's a never-ending pulse-race. Like knowing you don't want to jump off a cliff but not being able to talk yourself down from it.

Your fears take on a nebulous, unidentifiable form that tightens around your throat and incapacitates you.

There is no calm. No peace. Only the edge of a very strained thread."

you are always leaving me
yet waiting is what i do best
i collect every fragment of you
and let it fill the void inside
but remnants are never enough
is it wrong for me to desire?
to talk about our future together
as you lay under the rubbles
of your ruined past?
i am no virtuous saint
but i want to leave this hell
yet waiting is what i do best

The swell of your feverish hands over mine.
Sweat soaking into my skin.
I’m clutching every part of you I can grasp,
Every part of you I can fit into my palm.

We’re sitting beneath the hollow tree,
Beneath the ocean of a sky,
Beneath the screaming black-billed cuckoos.

We don't say a word because we don't need to;
Just silent prayers burned between us,
Scarred into pale, malnourished bones.

I look at you as your sloe-eyed gaze
bores into the mountains of clouds swimming above us.

I want to kiss you,
But all I can do is lay my head on your shoulder,
Wishing I could build a home out of your collarbones.

I don't ever feel safe anymore.

Except when I’m forgetting everything, with you.

At dusk,
I tried to unlearn the way the gold in your skin,
Possessed your face in scintillant rays of spots.

I could count each one if I had the time,
But you’re already turning your spine stuffing back away from me,
And skipping back home

Without the bother or concern to look back.