i’m afraid of social encounters, of getting close but no closer, of meaning nothing to another person, everything, anything, the wrong thing. i’m afraid of looking around and realizing i don’t really know **** about those i love. i don’t feel okay unless i lay on the floor at least once a day because there are so many things i want to touch but can’t-

like the rim around his iris or the unspoken thoughts that tie us all into invisible knots or the pain it must be to live in a house where your dad once drank coffee and read the paper and pet the cat, but now he’s dead and you still have to walk around pretending he isn’t in every inch of every room.

i have to lay on the floor because it’s tangible, reliable, forcing every bone to stay still, to stop trying to float to some impossible place where i’d be allowed to run my fingers across everything and try every emotion there is on for size

so i could stop ******* guessing.

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how does one pain differ from another? why does cancer take everyone good? why didn’t he tell me he had gone blind, that day i went to visit? why didn’t his parents cry? why is 4 years later and he still fills pages of my thoughts when there were so many people closer to him?

all the good in me came from you

i’d be bad if it meant you could live the life you wanted to

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love=vigilance

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the best poem i ever wrote was slipped into a journal and never read because he was afraid of the words

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i can’t get enough of you

my neck hurts from trying to sleep without you