10/3/14

I had a dream that you led me out of the fire. you were there to save me, it was nothing new.
but how do I measure the distance between my head resting on the pillow and the words that came from your mouth? they were: "come on, it's not safe here."

you don't like that you can't control the way people feel about you.
but she and I both are clinging to your belt loops, and you're trying to cut off your pants to get rid of us, like those helping a car crash victim with a fatal wound.
we are a million miles away from the ocean and the desert. in paradise, there are fields of wheat, but here, there are only
parking lots. grass grows through the cracks,
no one's stopped here in a long time.

I will not forget
how you made me feel.
I will not remember the times that you screamed in my face, you said "there's no hope for someone with weak self-esteem and a strong sense of perception."
I am not afraid of heights, but you were afraid of me. or maybe you aren't anymore.