My favorite time of the day is the majority of six minutes that his attention becomes mine. He's something I'd love to wrap around myself and I'd imagine a warm feeling cooling the burnt edges and rough breaks easing the incessant aching that has become my life.
Something about the way he talks makes the world dissipate around us and for once I'm not drowning in myself but in him.
When he's here there aren't words beating my mind or feelings strangling me with bloodied fingers there isn't that urge to burn myself down and the sense that I'm not okay doesn't exist to him because I don't let him ask.
I'd much rather spend our time listening to him and always walking on his right side because I love to look up at him and see how the sun plays shadows on the creases of his mouth and the infrequent freckles that play in lines on his cheek the familiarity of his eyes that tell stories of ever changing blues and greens how he always tilts his head towards me when we talk.
When he crosses my mind (all too often) butterflies don't shift and shake they begin to awaken and tremble delicately nostalgia creeping in every crevice and I'm consumed in his essence.
And it's funny because he always tells me about her but I always ask. How he's never felt like this and how different everything is. It hurts me when he speaks of how unsteady they are upsets me how she won't love him like she should like I could.
In those six minutes something normal flickers inside me something reassuring.
Usually in our six minutes I ignore the irony that while he's falling for her I'm falling for him.
more catharsis. not really any editing, my apologies.
There's a girl. Everyday she sits in the back of the room. Hiding. Hiding from reality. Hiding from the truth. No one notices her. No one even cares.
Everyday she goes home and cries. Pours out her soul. She screams in the pillow to muffle the sounds. She no longer feels alive. Numb to the world. Numb to everything. She feels nothing.
Slowly she gets up. She walks to the bathroom. In a trance. She grabs the razor like she does every afternoon. But today is different. She's had enough.
She turns on the water and fills the tub. Scalding hot. Just what she likes. She slips in and lets the water burn her. Lets it creep into every scar.
Her skin's on fire. But she could care less. She won't feel the pain much longer.
Shaking, she grabs the razor. Thin, delicate lines. All lined up like tally marks. Counting the times she felt alone. The times no one cared. The number of people that hated her.
One by one they bled. It was like drawing a picture on her precious, porcelain skin. Spelling out a message. The message she's been trying to tell everyone. But no one listens.
The water quickly turned crimson red. The background to the portrait of her body.
The cracks in her heart grew wider. But no light could shine in. For the darkness was taking over. Just like it had taken over her mind.
No longer would she feel the hate from everyone at school. No longer would she feel inadequate to her parents' demands. No one would miss her anyway. She was just a blur. Blending into the walls that held her captive.
Soon it would be over. Shutting out the world that shut her out, she took her last breath. The life poured out of her. Her body went limp. Feeling alive again no longer mattered.
I just wanted to be the sunlight that woke you up in the morning, the warmth you wouldn’t mind slipping through the curtains. But I suppose it’s enough for me to be the memory you hope to forget.
tracing my veins wondering which side of this brain is chemically imbalanced which side houses talents I haven't trained people praise my writing and some songs that I have made but none of it seems all that great they haven't gotten me less poor or less bored just a little less ignored but when I trace my veins I think that is enough
it is 2:23 am the fan is set on high, despite the fact that the weather outside is -20° fans are good for these sorts of things white noise drowning out the silence the thoughts the beer brings
thoughts of fools in love in coffee shops and cynics in tears in basement rooms and once brave men in coffins
the dog chews on a rawhide bone
and I unbraid my hair untangling each knot with trembling fingers
I undress slowly removing each piece of clothing like a memory
I put on that shirt I bought for you
I crawl into bed smearing plum lips and black eyes on an off-white pillowcase
and I think of once great loves of cynics I think of coffins I think of you in light blue
Where has my inspiration fled to? It took most my problems and ran away, Held them captive, Left anxiety by side. No inspiration for my poetry, Poetry being my outlet, Thoughts swirling around, Cant figure a way out, Overwhelming, Panic.