I write about fictional personalities mirrored in myself because the thought of admitting the shattering pain is so fragile and unbearable that I would have to bite the blade and let it take over.
I write about the girl by the bus, the boy with the special voice, the coughing woman and even the schizophrenic man.
But you may never ask me to name them, you may never ask me if they exist
You don’t lay your eyes at me, when we pass each other.
I don’t know why I count on it.
It makes me disappointed. And it tires me out.
I feel obsessed and desperate.
I hate it,
and it scares me.
I’m desperately reaching out for love,
but nobody takes my hand.
Nobody walks by my side with eyes and soul filled with love.
I see the pictures,
I hear about the love.
But I don’t feel it.
I miss him.
I know that's a common sentence.
But I really do.
His hands on my body.
It's hard for me to think of him now.
How he's become one with earth.
And how I'll never be able to see him as one again.
Only as the little pieces I remember him as.
I'm running through the rain,
through the city,
through the night,
through the ghosts in the cemetery,
through the pain and the feelings
And while I run,
I realise, that the wind messes up my hair and the rain messes up my makeup,
just like you mess up me.
You tell me it can't hurt. But you know not. That even when things doesn't happen, it hurts anyway.
The pain exist, even when the thing causing it doesn't.
But I pretend. I pretend everything is okay.
And the thought of that being the only thing I can do, scares me to death.
Your eyes are dark blue and mysterious like the oceans deepest bottom. Towards the light we walk with our skin shining with confidence and love.
But your soul tore my body apart, so only my lost soul wandered around. My love for you was tender but strong.
You were my best and my worst.