i feel messy. i wake up in the morning and i think about styling up my hair. i dare myself to look into the mirror and i pick up tiny details about my current state that i wish i could fix. all of this feels like a constant performance. you love me and i want to be good. i go to sleep and even though you're not in my bed, i tidy up the side of the mattress i think you'd like best. i braid my hair and i hope it sits prettily on my pillow. loving you is keeping me busy.

and i'll stumble around my wrongdoings and for them i will not feel shameful
i will learn how to shape myself into a body that knows its limits
and as i stumble i won't regret
i won't regret

(while my younger days slowly lost meaning,
as these eyes can no longer see naivety)

i've learnt the art of pure hatred way too early,
as if it was no one's wish to let me feel compassion
they taught me how to turn my love into aggression
and they promised me we would turn out just fine.

as if that's the only way to deal,
not teaching me how to feel.
a child who grew up with nothing but confusion
since the beginning, though, i knew there was an illusion.
hidden in between these late phone calls
and the lingering scent coming from his room
i was calmly waiting to bloom.

this kind of pain i've grown used to,
it has turned me into a selfish love seeker
torturing myself until i'm nothing but weaker,
and maybe that's what this demon wishes
the blindess of youth
stuck on its roots.

playing dumb is an end game
but me, too, have learnt how to turn pills into closed eyes
and how to turn love into a calculative mind.

i can't save you anymore
it doesn't matter because i never swore.

woke up to the bitterness in my mouth again
stuck on my throat
so i thought i’d get rid of it
for you.

woke up to the bitterness in my mouth again
i am still telling myself
putting this in words isn’t in vain.

these fingers used to run freely
tenderly, through your hair
and through this nest of thoughts.
unruly, but surely, telling me with certainty
i am deserving.

lately, they are hesitant and careful
as if there is nothing worthy to boast about
this silent room is made for poets
i can’t hear anything.

woke up to the bitterness in my youth again
and it’s telling me you are the last thing i need.
as i sit by my bed and try to count the lines in my skin
not as if there is still light within.
still, i tirelessly burn them until they turn blue
one by one, reminding me of the days i could have spent loving you.

they will write you beautiful letters
you will be part of enchanting melodies
somewhere this piece of crumbled paper won’t reach,
but it still knows, i am trying
for you.