i wonder if your bed remembers me over the others;

not that i spend more time in it or am any more special than them, but because i lie on the same side each time.

as a forewarning, i am neither permanent nor important, but i refuse to stop writing for you.

Lying in your bed and you lying to me in it has helped me learn that you will always wake up on my mind and I will always wake up alone.

Last night i dreamt I was your alien dream girl that kept the nightmares away but I woke up to god whispering that I'm the nightmare to which there's no relief. Disappointing revelations follow me through life and I think your entirety has become one of them, along with the crystal compliments you spit through your teeth.

I wish i could tell you that you made writer's block serendipitous, because the words that crawl out of my fingers ******* hurt, but your nose keeps bleeding and i keep screaming and you don't know how to stop. You don't understand that different places aren't new things, only the same poisons with prettier names.

Keep my secrets— don't tell the others that I like the toxicity, the burns and scrapes in my psyche. Keep that to yourself and I won't remind you of the day i watched you bleed, the day i whispered "I love you" with bloodstained teeth.

One thing you'll never realize about yourself is that your hand is a razor blade, a slender, sharp mountain range; but fingerprints fade eventually, or at least they smudge. I'm hoping you'll smudge away like your fingerprints, ambitions, conscience, compassion, and honesty. But while I'm waiting on you to change, I'll scribble on my walls in permanent marker, screaming "Look what I've done!" the entire time.