Yeah, you said it,
And maybe you meant it.
I’m sorry I can’t forget it,
But do you even regret it?
I sincerely doubt it,
Although I’m not mad about it.
I’m trying to move past it.
I just want to move past it.

You can put all of yourself into someone or
Something,
But that doesn’t mean it will ever amount to
Anything.
In the end, you’ll just be miserable and
Alone.

I want to be in love.
I want my palms to sweat
And my heart to race
And my thoughts to be so tangled in love-struck confusion
That I can’t sleep
Or eat
Or think about anything else.
I want to throw away my inhibitions
And let raw emotion take over.
I want to **** with passion.
I want to scream.
I want to cry.
I want to laugh until my stomach hurts
And I can barely breathe.
I want moments that take my breath away.
I want to make memories.
I want to stay up until dawn just to watch the sunrise.
I want everything, but most of all,
I just want to feel.

At first, it feels as if you're being torn apart from the inside out,
Like your heart is trying to beat its way out of your chest,
And your whole body aches with sorrow.

Then the pain subsides and is replaced with numbness, nothingness.
The fire in your eyes turns into a faint flicker,
And consumed by emptiness, you start to miss the pain.

Eventually, you begin to feel again,
And the smallest reminder of him cuts you like a blade,
So you take that blade, red with relief, and drag it across your wrists.

You fake a smile and force a laugh
So people don't suspect that something's amiss.
After all, time is supposed to heal all wounds.

Except yours are still fresh.
The very thought of him slices deeper
Because you are unable to forget.

Six months of
wishing,
wanting,
crying,
and trying
to be better,
to maintain a love that was tragically one-sided
and doomed from the start.

*******.

Six months of scars,
of long sleeved shirts
and pathetic excuses,
of lying to my parents
and telling myself,
"Things will get better."

*******.

Six months of long distance,
of broken promises,
missed phone calls,
and waiting for you to come home.

*******.

Six months of leading me on,
of empty words
and false I love you's,
said too soon and too often
but never truly meant.

*****. You.

It had been three weeks
Since my last encounter with the blade,
But when I awoke this morning
With a dull ache in my chest
And a pit in the bottom on my stomach,
I ran for it.

Still foggy with sleep,
I took the knife in my hands,
Traced it along my skin
Until I found the perfect spot
Two inches below my hip,
Just begging to be torn into.

One cut,
Two cuts,
Then three.
I stopped after that,
Feeling disoriented
But relieved
As the blood flowed to the surface
And dripped down my leg.

The sight comforted me
In a way that no hug,
No heart-to-heart,
No reassuring words ever could.
That should've scared me, I suppose,
But it didn't.
I didn't even flinch.

He told me that he didn’t like his smile.
“It’s too big,” he said.
But little does he know that a smile like his
could light up an arena.

He told me that he didn’t like his voice.
“It sounds weird on tape,” he said.
But little does he know that a voice like his
could engage the toughest of crowds.

He told me that he didn’t like his laugh.
“It’s loud and obnoxious,” he said.
But little does he know that a laugh like his
could spread as if it were an infection.

He told me that he liked me.
“I want to be with you,” he said.
But little does he know that someone like him
could do so much better than someone like me.

Maybe you could have been more understanding.
Maybe I should have tried harder to be okay.
Maybe we just weren't meant to be
And got lost somewhere along the way.
But maybe if I wasn't so broken,
You would have stuck around,
And that thing we lost, whatever it was,
Could have possibly, just maybe, been found.