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 May 2016 Jordan Bryson
Yv S
i should have never left home.
i should have never left the roof, the suffocation
and just stayed to die under blankets,
lest i die out in fresh air and spring.
i wish i could look you in the eye
and laugh with you, hold your hand,
let it sweat.
but i would have much rather died at home.
from here there are blinders on my eyes,
my windows and i measure my worth in
how many times you come over to just say *"hey"
,
(you lose points if you bring someone with you.)
another shadow cast in this already dark room,
i'd much rather die here, selfishly, with you pleading
for me to talk to you. then again, you never have.
i'll rather rot in this room, deluded and empty,
alive for now, but i'm waiting. i'll hold my own hand,
sweat it out, pretend it's yours.
i pretend to know what you'd kiss like, with your hands
against my cheek. i'll never know. (maybe i should leave--)
i should have never left home.
i'll relax here and wait for nothing to happen,
and for you to never kiss me at all.
about wanting love for someone who has it for someone else. and also, a fuckton of anxiety and not being able to leave the house and enjoy your friends and the person you're in love with because of said anxiety. about delusion and how mental illness can ******* you and make you lose everything because you believed you'd already lost it long ago.
 May 2016 Jordan Bryson
A
What does it mean to lose?

What does it mean to be stripped down to your core and stand, yielding, for the entire world to judge?

I sit alone, among snowy abundance and beauty so severe, that the very thought of countering it is laughable. The sky is poised with such excellence, whilst all around me, the birds display their intentions through a chorus of chirps and chatters, and yet, somehow – all is still. I ponder the idea of loss.

And wonder if, in this noble cycle, anything is really lost at all...

— The End —