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cassiopeia miel Jan 2016
DXM-choke me down, restart again because your princess is in another castle and she's shacked up with some *******; a trailer-sailor with cheap beer on his breath and his roving hands groping for her chest. You've already folded before you check the hand you've been dealt because this is the worst pain you've ever felt and so you robotrip 'til you imagine you've sunk his ship. Hide behind these substances that you pretend give your life sustenance, but they don't and I see you clearly and hold you like a child to my chest dearly; please don't fear me. I'm not trying to flirt, I just want to soothe your hurt, but I'm too weak and too meek to assist, so I don't insist. Just pretend I don't exist; not a malignant tumor, but benign cyst, and what humor; a dark twist.
i'm best friends with your ex and she is nothing like the hatred you spewed about her. you were the liar. you were the *******. (still are.)
cassiopeia miel Jan 2016
god, remember that morning when i said i didn’t have an addictive personality, as your fingers struck a match to light our cigarettes, yours a last (i forgot how many last smokes you had) and mine just for something to occupy my shaking hands and provide my coffee company.

i was a liar, i am an addict, a user, and my obsession is destroying myself. every stroke of a razorblade across my wrist feels like how the gentle kiss of a lover should, every finger-wide line of ketamine like finally coming home from a long trip.

how odd it is to finally receive the love and understand you’ve been withheld your entire life, but immediately upon doing so, all you want to do is run or lash out in ways that make them regret ever thinking you were worth a second of their time; can’t you see i am bitter, twisted, broken?

what am i supposed to do with love? humans are impermanent and i know best with my unstable at best self-image and my propensity to fly the coop at the slightest sign of attachment. i don’t want affection. love doesn’t keep you full, love doesn’t keep you warm, love is unconditional, but so is hatred and she is a better mistress than anything with a heartbeat.
i gotta stop writing monologues
cassiopeia miel Jan 2016
chalk it up to previous trauma and learned experiences influencing my approach to new situations, but i’m wary of everyone now. my eyes are fixed on every exit and everything that can be used as a weapon when someone enters the room. if there was a pill to forget, I would take it. i can’t go back and change yesterday, no, but it still touches me.

it’s tiring living with borderline personality disorder and it’s tiring being in love with someone who's also living with borderline personality disorder.
you can never love someone more than they hate themselves at times; you can either never be good enough for them, or they’re not good enough for you.

we’re supposed to be constantly feeling things at an intensified level than neurotypicals; extreme rage, excitement, drowning waves of sadness that threaten to take you somewhere no one can ever reach you again; i’ve lived my life in violent reds and heart wrenching indigos of tear-soaked navy-colored silk and it’s dusk.

these poor legs just don’t run like they used to. i’m thinking of plaster-filled walls and my poor mother painting layers and layers of my childhood bedroom, concealing kneeholes and knife holes i made as i descended into the labyrinthine maze of madness like a caged animal; a minotaur.

i think i tired myself out too early, fighting that good fight against familial kidnapping and climbing over the top of gated communities and skipping school to buy a greyhound ticket and shack up with a strange boy.

i lay last night in your bed, listening to the whirr of the fan you always insisted on using to help lull you to sleep, white noise and blackness and your warmth radiating into my perpetually cold skin.
like it, i am numb.
cassiopeia miel Jan 2016
these words used to spill from my fingertips like individual flowers from a downturned bouquet
but now they tangle on the way out of my mouth, and form knots in my throat.
i heave and heave and feel them tighten more,
no way to explain myself
no way to speak
follow by example and shove your fingers down my throat (like i have so many times before) and thread the needle
i am full of poison and this is the only way to get it out.
i write a few lines every so often and then forget about it until i go to clear my 'notes' tab.
cassiopeia miel Jan 2016
i'm addicted to destruction, i guess.

wait, let me start over-
i found your journal leaking semi-formed ideas and delirious rants
vaguely shaping your various existential crises
and i wanted to laugh at sharp word, misspelled for dramatic effect;
they never did sound as sweet spilling from your lips like a discordant tangle of noise and statick as they did in the black ink of your low scrawl,
wide valleys stretching between the peaks and lines of your letters like the invisible, insurmountable mountain ranges that kept you away from the rest of the world that your letters run parallel to.
you ran parallel, and we were tangent, meeting once before parting forever.
holding on ***** up the big picture, and boy oh boy, did we set fire to this forest.
the birds have left and the deer have gone; i don’t think anything can grow here again.

but i’m trying not to blame you for what you had to do to survive
but it’s difficult when you ******* tore me open, and that’s not a figure of speech.
it’s not easy to excuse a dragon when you can still feel their breath misting your neck, a fine peppering of acid directly from their mouth,
turning someone into art doesn’t erase your guilt.
yeah, i’m still a belligerent idiot, but you are still a ******.

by the way, a memo from my ******: you’re not seven inches.
you were there, i was there. then i ran and i was gone and then he found me and brought me home with him and now i am safe and you are alone
cassiopeia miel Jan 2016

he's not comin' back.

cancer. cancer. cancer. cirrohisis of my liver,

but i cant stop drinking you in. sweet poison.

sweet poison corrode me.

floating face down in a sea of bile.

he's never coming back.

(mr rogers says im not welcome in his neighborhood.)

***** x SPEW

bleed me out, skin me,

and stretch me out to dry.

i still smell your Players, a cigarette ghost clinging to the folds of my dress.

rewind it back to the night we met under fluorescents

ill turn tail and run for the hills before i feel your lips press against mine.

all the razorblades in the world, all the nooses, pills, and guns

pale in comparison to the exquisite pain of your teeth raking against my skin (close, but not close enough);

i wanna pull you in, a direct injection to my veins.

was i a cheap trick?




karma is a ***** and she rode me hard with no foreplay to ease entry.

my moms both have cancer and i was (i am) scared i do too.

i guess i do but not in the way i thought originally;

it's you.

are we star-crossed lovers? meeting briefly in the night sky for a fleeting union.

(even caligula would blush at the thoughts I have of you.)
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