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 Aug 2013 Insomnimaniac
Eunoic
Words that don't exist:

1. The state of being clueless of your own beauty.
2. A parent whose child has died.
3. The feeling of strong love at the beginning of a relationship

Words that do exist:

1. Hate.
2. Divorce.
3. Suicide.
4. Love.
If I could do it all again,

I would still die by her,
But I would live and love you.
20 words.
Sometimes I just stop,
I dream of those frostbite eyes,
And sigh a deep sigh.

It went by in blinks,
You were there, here, and then gone,
Just like that I lost.

I dreamt of your face,
Your raven hair, your snow skin,
Dreamcatcher broken.

Drowned my ears with words,
My paper with fragile strokes,
And my eyes with loss.

Your laugh was rapture,
A world away from this earth,
Comfort in the clouds.

Your arm is bloodless,
Your smile is showing and bright,
For this, I’m content.

‘I miss you’ is weak,
I feel much more than just that,
I starve for your warmth.

Love’s progressive chords,
A curve in the beat, ******,
All advance halted.

Your name is beauty,
‘Katriana’ my tongue sings,
Your face to match name.

-March 2013
I know you said it was over,
I know I said I agreed,
I know you walked away,
I was content,
For the time being

But for some reason,
It is you I keep seeing,

I can’t shake this feeling.
 Jul 2013 Insomnimaniac
AJ
I really don't think you understand.
I will explain it to you.

Being bulimic is convincing yourself,
That you don't like pizza, or chips, or ice cream.
And eventually you believe it whole heartedly.
And you cannot stand those foods anymore.

Being bulimic is pretending
To eat dinner in your room,
And just hiding it in a plastic bag,
Until you have time to get rid of it.

Being bulimic is more than just counting calories.
You count calories, and bites, and calculate percentage of calories from fat,
And how many calories you have left that day.
And you can't sleep if you haven't written every bite down.

Being bulimic is having an absolute panic attack
When dinner plans are changed.
You planned for this meal.
And now everything you worked so *******, is gone.

Being bulimic is waiting till 2 am,
When everyone is asleep,
So you can sneak out to the kitchen,
And take a bunch of food back to your room.

Being bulimic is binging on so much food,
Way beyond what makes your stomach feel comfortable,
And you don't even like the food your eating.
You don't even like it, and you just stuff it in your mouth.

Being bulimic is being able to ***** without a toothbrush,
And doing at least 600 crunches that night,
So that you don't need to cut yourself
For what you just did.

Romanticize it all you want,
But my teeth rotted,
And i still have friends that listen outside the bathroom door.
Have fun, because I'm not.
Two nights ago,
I discovered the definition
of summer.
Regardless of what
Merriam tells you,
it is not just "the warmer
half of the year."
In fact, summer lies
within the smallest details
of a perfect day
and the broadest spectrum
of all drunken nights.
It is the warm concrete
underneath your thighs
that burns at first but
"hey, you'll get used to it."
It is the cigarette carelessly
placed between your
cherry-red lips
and the way we sang as
loud as we could in
your driveway at
3-in-the-morning.
It is the restlessness
of being in one place for
too long mixed with the
comfort of somewhere you
know like the back of your hand.
It is our "couple minute long" talks
that turn into hours
and the epiphany I had when
I realized it's okay to be okay
but it's also okay to not be.
It is the moment I told you this
revelation of mine,
and how you smiled at me
like a 2-year-old and responded,
"this is why I love you."
 Jul 2013 Insomnimaniac
M R
11:12
 Jul 2013 Insomnimaniac
M R
As the sky began to fade to a lighter shade
the stars bid their farewell
and the ones that fell to the earth
took all my wishes with them
and 11:12 laminated my disappointment
you're still over there
and I'm still here
 Jul 2013 Insomnimaniac
ok
It's not the way you are, dear.
It's the way my emotions reach their peak at 2 a.m.
when I'm alone with my blank canvas and endless list of fears
and you're going on the adventure I so desperately want to join you on.

It's the way my cobwebbed thoughts and overzealous daydreams intertwine
like my collarbones ache to be danced on,
while you're being the kind of free I've written about for years
and shedding your past of broken promises and disappointments.

It's the way I constantly grasp for a firm hold on a spark,
any kind of sweet nothings or a flick of an eye that tells me you want this
as bad as I do.
You're terrified of the future and I'm terrified of my past.

There's galaxies between our faults but inches between our lips
for a weekend, and it's the happy ending I crave
but it's only salt on my wounds when you have to pack your bag
with work clothes and every stumbled over "I love you."

This X marks the spot of where I used to feel okay
and your birth mark has lipstick stains from my rituals of
fixing this but they're fading every day I don't get to
bury my face in your sweatshirt and wrap myself in you.

This is my failed attempt at getting used to being attached but alone
At being at my most vulnerable state
And being in love with someone who will never understand.

Tell me, then, why isn't this working if opposites attract?
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