Write something beautiful.

I tell myself,
"Tonight,
I will write something beautiful."

I think..
as I drink wine from the bottle,
wine I chose because that particular taste
seems to **** the loneliness better than others.

Cheap moscato.

I feel somewhat like
the sad counterpart to a jay-z video,
sipping bottles and writing rhymes.
But my writes don’t rhyme,
and my bottle was $6.99,
bought by my cousin because I’m still too young to legally drink,
but somehow I can vote and go to war..
I could die, if I so chose, for the very country that tells me
it’s illegal to find some sort of way to **** the pit in my stomach.

But this is the alcohol talking,
and I’m starting to sound like I do this often...

Then again, the way I’m writing, if I told you I didn’t, you wouldn’t believe me anyway.

So yes world!
Cruel, sad world.
You drove me to a bottle I cant even own,
and somehow I’m still allowed to be



this
*******
sad.


Riddle me that...







..But then I remember that my problems pail in comparison
to those in other worlds,
and my demons are child’s play compared to victims
of all the other sins of evil-doers...

But you know what?
Tonight, I want to ******* feel sorry for myself,
and I don’t want to be sorry about it.
Because, my family is terrifying.
And I ran away from the clutches of a life I still believe
I’ll fall victim to in the end.
And the boy I still cry over,
finally told me that he loved me,
but regret it twelve hours later
when the whiskey had worn off.
I haven’t spoken to
any kind of god,
in longer than I can remember
and I doubt any of them would listen anyway.
At this point,
the men I’ve slept with no longer have faces
except for the one, with the whiskey and the sweet words..
and all I can do
is lay in bed
and wait for the world to slow the **** down
so I can figure out which ******* direction
I'm even going in.

So **** it,
that’s it.

There’s your something beautiful.

I love the very beginning of a relationship.
Where you’re both still nervous,
your palms still sweat,
your hands still shake.
Where each kiss is still tentative,
and each touch is private,
personal.

Daring to go further
but not wanting to go too far.

Daring to say everything
but not wanting to say too much.

Everything is real.
They say it isn't.
But it is,

right?

It's pure,
so pure
in the beginning..


I wish we could just stay like this forever.
In this sort of secret place,
where every glance
and every word are so deliberate.
Because it is real.
It is.
In this place, it is real

I wish it could be like this forever.


I wish we didn’t have to get used to each other.

I gave you
three years.

three years of my life.

three
*******
years.

How the **** could I let that happen.

It makes me

so sad

to

love you.

There are tears I should have shed for you.
Sometimes I feel them in the backs of my eyelids.
Where I stored them
so long ago
when I lied
and told myself that I would never cry for you again.
Three years in the making
our tragic end
the heartbreak heard around the world.
When I told you I'd stay
but you didn't ask me to.
The one where I packed my bags
and moved across the country
leaving you in the wake
of the storm that had been us.
The torment of fighting for you
of fighting to love and be loved by you
Three years of holding you while you hated yourself
and your life
and everything.
Only to get you through the darkness
and have you throw me back to the wolves
from which you had crawled out of.
Bloodied and broken it was there that I would wait
wait for you to need me again.
wait for it to be convenient to love me again.
Three years of playing your game
of always getting two steps ahead before always falling a lifetime behind.
Waiting for the conditions to be right
and the music to play in tune.
Waiting for the sky to turn
that shade of blue
that it always seemed to be
when we would lie together
and you would trace my tattoos
tell me I was perfection
tell me that I really was loved.
The early morning blue
when everything was silent
except the sound of your breathing
while you finally drifted away from me.
Three years of leaving without saying a word
kissing your cheek while you slept as I got dressed
before leaving without a sound
to drive home alone
and wait until I was worthy enough
to be loved again.
A thousand mornings led to this.
to the morning I left
drove home alone
and didn't wait.
The morning you didn't come after me
where there was no cusak moment.
There was no music.
No breathing.
Nothing that made this worth it.
That morning I took what I had left for you
what was left of the heart I had placed in your hands
dropped it out the window on I-81
as I drove
and drove
and drove until I saw the ocean.
Where I dumped your memories into the sea
stripped off the person you had carelessly made me
swam naked and unattached
as I wept for the years
for the moments
for those mornings.
And when the water had finally washed you away
and I was clean
I took the last of those tears
and placed them in a secret place
deep behind my eyelids
perhaps as a reminder
or perhaps just as a memory
of the three years that I loved you.
Before you let me walk away.

Life is fleeting.

That much we know, right?
We can't see the future
and the past is a filthy liar
that often makes things seem
so much better than they were.
Coated in some fog of nostalgia
that allows us to forget the pain
or disappointment
or even failure.
So where does that leave us?
Right here.
Right now.
But in the tick of my watch hand,
we're suddenly older than we've ever been before
and further away from the moments we shared.
Every second,
those moments get blurrier
until one day they're just there.
And they mean nothing
because they aren't real anymore.
They've been distorted and warped,
mangled by time and space,
anger and loss,
love and longing.
But our story...
Our story doesn't deserve to be watered down,
falsified by years
of wanting a better ending.
Our story deserves to be what it was.

So that's the story I'm going to tell.

I think that maybe I loved you,
in the darkness,
and in the lowlights.

And I think that maybe I held you
in my heart
or in my hands.

I think that maybe I misunderstood
all the little things,
or maybe the big things,
the things of which the size, I couldn’t comprehend.

I misunderstood everything.
Every moment that was spent thinking that I understood the world,
thinking that I understood us.
Who we were,
and where we were going.

Everything was supposed to be black and white.
I expected it
to be black and white.
I tried to avoid all the grey areas where the lines were undefined,
sought to avoid the questions and confusions.

But I couldn’t.

Slowly,
the universe seeped through the eyelids I had attempted to keep forced shut.
Strands of color.
Threads which shot across the darkness,
of my lonely ceiling,
weaving galaxies,
and forming Gods.

I watched all the stories being written
in the form of harlequin dreams.
Surrendered to the kaleidoscopic visions,
of everything I’d originally witnessed in passionless monotint.

Everything became chaotic,
complex,
as I laid there in what was now
nothing more than the remnants of a former perspective.

I think that maybe that was the moment it all made sense.
All the things that didn’t make sense,
all the things that were never meant to make sense.

I became suddenly comfortable with this *******-like perception,
where everything was smeared and splattered together
as an illustration of pure and continuous creation,
providing a canvas for both reason and insanity.

I think that maybe it was then that I loved you
for everything that you weren’t,
and everything that you would never be.

I loved you for all the expectations that weren’t there.
For all the things you didn’t ask about,
and all the secrets I didn’t feel the need to tell you.

It was all clear,
when the lines blurred and the colors mixed.

I think that maybe I loved you
simply because I loved you