don't you dare
give up on this life

not tonight


not tomorrow

not ever.

don't you dare
give up on this life

not tonight


not tomorrow*

*not ever.

And we made a promise.
To schedule a day at some random cafe.
Where we'd sit, with an over-sized cup of coffee.
And talk for hours about everything we hated about the world.

are you there, god?
or are you having nightmares
about the echoes of children's prayers you couldn't answer?

:smile.
:but I can't.
:why?
:cause then it'll mean I'm happy.
:what's wrong with being happy?
:the fact that I'm actually sad.
:sad?
sad from?
:life.
:life.
what about life?
:the fact that I can't end it.
:why would you wanna end life?
:it was never my choice to begin it.
:therefore not your choice to end it either, right?
:the same man that ends the war, is not the same man who begun it.
:silence?
*:thought so.

WHAT IF IT NEVER GETS EASIER?

HOW MANY CUTS DOES IT TAKE TO CONVINCE YOU SOMETHING HURTS INSIDE?

HOW DEEP SHOULD THE BLADES SLICE BEFORE YOU SEE IT?

HOW MUCH BLOOD UNTIL I'VE DRAINED IT FROM MY SYSTEM?

I slid the blade across my skin.
1 time.
2 times.
3 times.
So many times, actually.

Pain.

In the form of the way father
clenched his fists in anger,
and mother's grip around the red wine bottle at 3 am in the morning.

I MISS HIM.

AND I LOVE HIM SO ****** MUCH.

it's getting bad again.

the kind of bad that makes death look attractive.

SO FILLED WITH PAIN AND SADNESS, IT STRESSES THE THUMPS OF MY HEART BEAT  SO LOUD IT COULD WAKE THE WHOLE HOUSE.

I did not understand the depth of sadness, until i started drowning in my mind.

And it seemed like loneliness was a friend, that visited much too often at night.

And, somestimes i wished, it wasn't only my hands that wiped the tears from my eyes when i cried.

What if maybe, you'll bump into some girl at a coffee shop, and she'll apologize continuously about spilling on your cloud white shirt, the one you just bought a couple of days before, and you'll grab her silky soft hand to assure her its okay. Then she'll offer you a cup of coffee "on the house" or maybe even a cuppachino, and you'll gladly accept, amused by the sparkles in her eyes, and how her smile lights up a room, and you'll offer her a seat, even pull her chair out, like the gentleman you are, and you'll talk and talk and talk and talk. Talk about stupid stuff. Random stuff. About work, or how she loves chocolate ice-cream, and you'll laugh, laugh 'till your tummies ache, and before you know it, you'll realize you're in love.

And I'll be here.
Waiting.
Only to realize,
the girl you loved,
wasn't me.

i made two cups of hot coffee and watched as yours turned cold. you're not here.
and all i can think about is how you should be.

If you look into the mirror,

and don't like what you see,

you can find out first hand,

what it's like to be me.

I giggled my way out of every bad memory.

I pretended nothing hurt.


Until it didn't.

And everyday that I woke.
I had to remind myself.
Remind myself,
you were no longer here.
That your arms were no longer around for me to run into.
That your shoulder was no longer around for me to cry on.

*That I had to lean on me.

If words were actual physical things,
then maybe,
we could all finally feel what is being said.

And as much as they tell us to be ourselves.
That what?
"Everybody else is taken."

God knows who told them that everybody else was who you wanted to be.