I want to pick up the phone
and tell you I love you
shout it from the ******* rooftops
so you'll know I've felt this way all along.
I don't know how I can prove it to you
or if you doubt my every instance to try and let you know.
I'm ****** up,
I wish I could fix myself, but I can't.
The only thing I know for sure
is that I love you.
I don't know what else to do with myself,
when my lows are so completely irrationally low
you're the only one I want to talk to,
when something good happens to me
you're the one I want to run to and tell.
But instead I'm sitting here,
wishing I had some kind of backbone,
and some sort of security.
These bones are shaking from the things
my mind is capable of conjuring up.
The lower I get, the more I love you.
Save me, if it's not asking too much.

and it's empty and cold.
So a reflection, actually.
I send  you my love
I care for you so much and I am delicate with you.
but...
I am a screaming heart
being muffled and drained by indifference and the sound of bitter static
I love you madly
I want to hold you when you cry and make you *** and sigh..
yet I feel like a fool when I do this all
and I draw and I draw forever....
When there's no wool from you to keep me warm and no warm returns of my letters.
The inside of my chest is becoming hollow because I gave too much.

My car is safe. It’s small and warm, and no one can hurt me if I’m just sitting in here, parked.
It's a mechanical womb I take refuge in when the world is just too much.
I turn on the heat slightly with a nudge of my cold fingers and let the warm air hold me; comfort me.
I am cradled in the driver's seat and soft voices of static offer their company.
I nestle myself in the warm velvety darkness  of this womb and place my hands over my chest.
I feel my own heart beating.
The hum of the engine resonates though my spine, into my chest and whispers a lullaby... soon after I feel myself drift.

To be what they want
Is to win a battle
To be who you are
Is to win a war

what if the person that gave birth to me
the one that was supposed to love and accept me
used to be the monster i was afraid of at night
the one that told me i was worthless all the time
what if the person that gifted me with my life
*is actually the person that made me want to die

Perhaps I peered too closely into the abysmal potholes of other people’s souls
of whom I had no business pilfering through in the first place.
Now I ponder about feelings and memories that do not belong to me
some of which are long forgotten, disregarded, or even irrelevant.
Of this information that I have unearthed and processed, I know not what to do with it.
I am perpetually preoccupied with what lies beneath the surface point, which is what pushes me forward, yet could propel me to my downfall.
I just sit here and anxiously ponder this arcane information I acquiesced
through means not noble to my standard of normal morals.
There is nothing else to do.
For I rest here in the realm of reality.
This is no novel of fiction for me to figure out.
I can’t flip through the pages of people’s plights.
Something like that does not fall within my rights.
I am a mere meddling mortal amongst other mortals.
I am no god who sits proudly upon their plethora of others’ secrets.

I am just another human being.