I remember the day you left us like it happened yesterday.
You told me you couldn't be with us anymore. That you had to leave, that you weren't happy anymore. As you left you promised me that you would see me in a few weeks. A few weeks turned into 4 years, and you are still trying to make up for that time that was lost.
You used to be a good dad. You used to take me out on adventures every Saturday morning. I remember sitting in your old truck listening to Pink Floyd on our way to Yosemite, always remembering to stop by that little cafe to buy me blueberry pancakes.
You were the first man to break my heart, stand me up, and leave me. You used to not lash out at us in anger.
You used to have gentle hands but now they are balled up fists sewn tight with anger, and just like your words, they hurt. You aren't a father anymore, just a stranger who sleeps on our couch in the living room after stumbling in drunk at 3 AM.

I can choke myself to please you and I can sink much lower than usual, but there's nothing I can do to make you mine.

A girl in a coma, but in reverse, the world stays still, and she moves like a sun rays. She has been holding blooming flowers for far too long and her hands have transformed into ****** messes, nothing is pure anymore.

I always fall in the wrong lake of what people call "love". They told me to be kind. They told me to be radiant, and gentle, but I ended up a misused copy of a book that was written under regret and misery.
I've never thought it was wise to call a person by their appearance, but when it comes to you, all words seem too boring, too used, too stupid.
I want you to always remember the feeling of me, even long after you've washed your hands. And just like me, the clouds fell for you and cry because they can't have you. A thousand lessons were taught to me the moment I let you take a part of me, the same moment I knew I'd never be the same. I hear him speak about life with a frustrated tongue and an indignant tone that makes me want to hold him and whisper sweet words, reminding him that life can be soft. even with knives as hands, even with everything.

you're all i hear about these days and i think i once coughed my way out of telling someone i loved them. My body wont stop shivering and these house fixtures keep staring at me like they know my secrets and all my broken promises to myself. Its okay though, because some day i will stop singing songs and writing ****** poetry for the people who have wronged me. I'll learn the difference from real and fake and right and wrong, maybe i'll even finally be able to sleep again.

i was once told that i was never going to be good enough for love. that i spend too much of my time tending to the needs for people whom i loved, and i will never have that in return. Always planting forests for people who only burn them down. That i am type of girl that has only ever known ashamed love. A love that is always hidden behind closed bedroom doors and smothered under soft cotton sheets. The kind of love that is not love, never love, but lust. the word itself has been slipped through lips glossed with poison, but has only left me weak and ill.

if it's any constellation, I never saw stars between us.