he told me that we were as crossed in the stars as suicide love; and to be honest, it's starting to feel that way. that day, Hope, I couldn't avoid her- clutching only to find her bleeding out on the bathroom floor.
this is how it always starts.
and here i am again, feeling inadequate about my poetry. my words are lined like trees: unforgiving, wooden.
what if you could see me now?
now, with a purpose. i know i make you nervous. i remember when you told me you feared God and i used to think you were so **** poetic looking at me, so **** pathetic looking at me.
he told me he was addicted.
the way people can be addicted to sadness is like how the body tries to maintain homeostasis. but for me, the potential of change ignites in haste, yet-
i am sick of recycled air; i am sick of the taste.
i could say i was sick of you but we both know that'll never be true.