his knuckles are bruised and swollen and his hands shudder slightly as i brush my fingers across them. i feel the pain radiating off of him as intensely as the sun on my neck, and it leaves me with a weight in my chest i can’t seem to shake. i can’t look at his eyes when i whisper

“why do you do this to yourself?” i know, i know, i know,

“every time i am harsh with myself,” he says, turning his hands over to grasp mine, “i remember to touch you more gently.”

“i have wanted many terrible, beautiful things,” he says. “the purest thing my hands have touched by far,” he tucks a strand of my hair behind my ear. “is you.”

i think we all have that one person we know
could have changed us

i know i do. i know every time i see your picture i think that could have been mine and i know when you see me you see a missed opportunity but there's no going back now and sometimes doors only open once. and it's not that i want that life, i didn't want it when i lived it, didn't want the place or the people or the rules but i always wanted you.

i think if i kissed you just once maybe i wouldn't regret everything else. maybe then it would be worth it.

i know you think of me sometimes.
please think of me sometime.

are you ever scared of the people you won't become

nick grabs my waist and pulls me closer to him, and there’s a light in his eyes i haven’t seen before, a manic spark brighter than the neon spotlights above. bodies and sounds rage around us, the temperature and beat rising as one, my own heartbeat echoing in my head. i’m not a dancer and if it weren’t for his hands in mine i’m sure i would have been lost, tossed and trapped in the gyrating mass of limbs and smoke and screaming.

but he isn’t lost, the lights blinking rapidly and reflected in his smile, he’s smiling, and i can’t hear him but he’s laughing too.

magnetic.

hm. somehow i missed you,
anxiety. i feel
more myself, this is
familiarity in a
nutshell, i know the
buzz
in my chest cavity
better than i know
myself,
it seems.
i guess i'm not the epitome
of health, these days
late nights
droughts and self-doubt all
seem to take out
the part of me that used
to dream. or think. or
do anything at all
really.
i guess that's okay,
i guess
between loneliness
and fear there's
an alleyway, home,
a place you don't go
until you're there,
realizing more
and more
how easy it is to stay
and how hard it is to care.

“i shake when i talk to you,” i say, my gaze fixated on the off-white kitchen tiles in front of his feet, my feet planted on those same tiles, my hands winding around each other and my nails digging in my palms. i see him stepping closer, closing the distance in 3, 2, 1---

“i shake when i’m not talking to you,” he whispers.

he kisses me. we don't shake.