Sometimes saying goodbye to someone
doesn't nearly hurt as much
as saying goodbye to the version of you
that existed alongside them.

My favorite thing was going to sleep on the phone and waking up, still hearing you on the other end of the line.

You'd breathe slowly as I whispered the things I couldn't tell you yet at the time, hoping they reached you in your dreams.

When you were little you would be read stories about prince charming, and dream about your happily ever after. You'd see his silhouette vaguely in your dreams as he'd take you to far off lands to escape the harsh realities you didn't want to face. Growing up you and your friends would admire many princes from afar, waiting for the day all of you would find one you could call your own.

One day he does come for you. He takes you to places you've never been and it feels like it's everything you could ever want.

But there comes a time when he takes off the helmet and the armor, and his sword and his trusty steed begin to dissolve. Everything around you looks familiar and you figure out you've been going in circles.

And it's then when you realize prince charming isn't real. He's just a boy in a costume with his own problems, and he can't save you.

Each night my moon's light grows weaker, only a flicker of his past self.
When I gaze up at him from my windows, I don't feel the same as I used to. His beam no longer envelops me.
He looks the same, his craters all in place, yet I can't help but feel like I'm staring at someone else.
On late night trips as a child I would look out the car window and wonder why the moon was following me.
I'd tell my dad to drive faster, hoping we could outrun it somehow.
Now I walk slowly down the street. I don't dare look up at the sky because I know he's not there.
I shout night after night. I tell the stranger to give me my moon back. I tell him my woes. I give him my tears.
You're not him. You're not him. You're not him.
And I wish he wasn't. But he is.
Perhaps my moon was never mine?
Either way he never answers, never cares. Not anymore.
I cry each time dawn rolls around like it's the last time I'll see him, because maybe it is.

1.  The respect and love I deserve
2. The ability to write without being sad
3. ???
4. ?????
5. A hat for my cat

It hurts to love,
But hurts even more to leave.
Every night in my dreams i see these two roads winding towards the horizon.
My feet itch to choose a path, yet i always wake up without a decision.
Do I free myself, yet stay awake at night haunted by who he's holding tonight?
Or cry myself to sleep, comforted that he's still mine for a little while longer?

I choose him again and again. As I weigh the pros and cons I try to imagine how long the pain lasts for each choice. I choose him as I think this will blow over.
He'll change today.
It'll be different today.
He'll change today.
It'll be different today.
I sit on the beach and close my eyes under the sun day after day and let it burn, because I believe a wave will wash over me soon enough.

And it does. And it doesn't.
Some days, weeks, the sun never touches me.
Some days, weeks, the sun is all I feel.

He tells me he loves me. I truly wonder what love means to him. I never ask, as I'm afraid that our definitions wouldn't match.
And if they didn't, would that mean that he does not love me? Or am I not being loved the way I want to be?

I feel empty. I give everything I have and never receive my end of the bargain. I have nothing else to give yet constantly try to reach into my soul and pull something out. I think this time I'll get something. This time it'll happen. This time it'll be fair. I just need to give a little more. I just need to sacrifice a little more. I'm just not doing enough.

But I know now, that some people love to take. And take. And take. And take. And never let anything go.

I know now that some people are so privileged to be loved so wholeheartedly, to have so much that they can't bear giving any of it away.

Like children, they abuse their privileges and throw tantrums when it's taken away. They don't want to earn it. They just want it given.

Is it so hard? Is it honestly so hard?

*******.

"Are we okay?" He asks me.

No, actually. We're not.



But I say yes anyway.

The Why's:
"Why does it hurt so much?"
"Why do I feel like I'm losing you?"
"Why am I never good enough?"
"Why am I doing this?"
"Why can't you let her go?"
"Why do we keep going in circles?"
"Why do I never follow my gut?"

The What's:
"What do they have that I don't?"
"What's wrong with me?"
"What's wrong with you?"
"What do you want from me?"
"What is the right thing to do?"

The Who's:
"Who is she?"
"Who am I?"
"Who are you?"
"Who do I turn to?"
"Who can I talk to?"
"Who wouldn't hurt me?"
"Who wouldn't judge me?"

The Am I's:
"Am I better off alone?"
"Am I a good person?"
"Am I doing what is right?"
"Am I living the life I should?"
"Am I better not living life at all?"
"Am I kind enough?"
"Am I popular enough?"
"Am I pretty enough?"
"Am I smart enough?"
"Am I funny enough?"
"Am I enough?"

My first love was the moon.

In my darkest hours, he bled through my curtains.
He was quiet, never really having to say anything,
only gently bathing me in his light.

He replaced my tears with stars,
arranging them in constellations that told of our future,
proving to me I'd live long enough to even have a future.

Even when I refused to let him in,
even as I'd shut my windows and bundle under the covers,
I'd peek outside after some time and he'd still be there,
Night after night.
Waiting.
Patient.
Forgiving.
Loving.

Perhaps I had taken my moon for granted.
Perhaps one wasn't designed to wait forever.
Perhaps a moon can only share its light for so long.

Tonight I open my windows,
and for the first time,
the night has never been darker.

Falling in love
Is the process
Of witnessing first-hand
Your own distinct life
Slowly intertwining itself
With another's,

Until one is shared by both.

Once you have fallen, and are falling no more,
There is no yours or mine
Only ours,

And nothing will ever be the same.

Life is comprised of liquid moments.
No matter how hard we try to grasp them,
Or cup them in our hands,
It's never enough.
They will always leak through the cracks
Between our fingers.
And even if we do manage
To keep little drops of time
Wedged in the wrinkles of our palms,
They will evaporate, soon enough.

I get it.
I know you dislike me.
If only we lived in equal repulsion,
We could go on with our lives
Peacefully loathing each other.
But, sadly,

My fondness for you does not quiver in the slightest.

Look at me
Like it means
Something,
Would you?

"What do you fear?"
"Death."
"Death is inevitable."
"That's why it scares me."

She was a star:
Burning,
               Distant,
                             And beautiful.

Love is not a phenomenon that echoes throughout the cavities of our chests.
Love is not a fuzzy feeling, or the goofy smile you get whenever somebody holds your hand.
Love is not late night calls, or midnight meet ups and stolen kisses.
Love is not a drum in your chest or a butterfly in your stomach.

Love is a chemical.
A hormone.
An impulse.

But here's the beautiful thing about us:
We choose to give it meaning.
We humans love from our hearts,
As if we actually could.

Please,

Turn my body
Into a garden
When I die.

Maybe flowers
Will grow out
Of the same eyes
That used to cry.