if you are ever at a bus stop then take a good look at the person not standing near everyone and know that this person is a writer. know that their hands are in pain and know that they have cried themselves dry in front of darkened mirrors because they can’t stand the sight of themselves. know that the night into which their lover fled is that which owns their soul. they know much more than you yet they would give anything not to understand. they’re wearing long sleeves for a reason and they are taking the bus only because they know that their life has no purpose, no more than that of an abandoned cigarette. know that these people with the very melancholy eyes and the pigeon-toed feet are writers and that they will love you even when they can’t love themselves.
it doesn't make sense for me to feel this way because you're not even mine but i still can't help feeling the way that i do like i'm drowning and the water is digging into my lungs like a knife i'm tired of the way my heart wants something that it can't have making me feel sad at night over things within my grasp but can't really hold with my hands
sometimes i feel like going back in time to try to tell myself things that i didn't know then to try to save myself from the ache that made my heart bend
he didn't love you for your soul he didn't love you at all
he's not going to stay don't hold out that hope
please let him go please let him go please let him go
because i'm still trying to say these things to myself today and i don't know for how long i'm going to have to until i begin to realize it was all just a mistake and i've confused another stranger with a soulmate.