Sometimes when I can’t see it
I wonder if the world exists
If I close my curtains
Turn out the lights
And close my eyes tight
Does everything else
Simply cease to exist?

Can I ignore
The pounding of my heart
As it keeps me awake
Because, after all
None of the things
I’m worrying about
Really Exist when
I’m not looking at them.

But how do I stop looking
How do I curtain the world
Shut off the sun
And live with my eyes closed
So that I don’t have to fear
Things that pop back into existence
The moment I let them?

i don't want to walk with you
or to pillow talk with you
i want just you

i don't want to die with you
or to get high with you
i want just you

i don't want to curl up with you
or to be love struck by you
i want just you

i don't want cute dates with you
or to wake next to you
i want just you

i don't want to get to know you
over dinner, then to owe you
i want just you

i don't want commitment
or to have to admit that
i want more than 'just you'

though it’s a shame love has hurt me before
it's getting much harder for me to ignore:
the fact that i don't really want 'just you'
it's all the little things that i don't want to want to

But where is the place for the people like us?
The artists, the cutters, the solemn observers.
Every INFJ. Every poisoned mind. Every social awkward with so much depth they just might sink.
The ones who have found their soul but are searching for their mind.
The ones who find their mind by losing their marbles.
The misrepresented and misunderstood.
The hurt and the happy.
With a requirement of so much patience and love that no one is willing or able to give.
The ones who make adjustments.
Who hit rock bottom and manage to get back up on their own.
The ones who fall too fast for something out of reach. They end up quietly crashing and burning.
The ones who are living under layers of paint; on their hearts and in their homes. Whose sweetness and innocence are buried somewhere underneath the paint, barely recognizable.
The ones who were born with a fifty year old soul.
Who have a biologically memorized speech that no one will hear; that no one can hear.

I ask you, where will they go, the people like us?

I gave you my heart
and when you left, you gave it back.
(carefully; you tried not to break it.)
you did it so that I could give it
to someone else but my god, I wish
you'd kept it. (it remembers you
like worn-out furniture, it remembers
your shape, and no one else could fit
that way.)

the best often die by their own hand
just to get away,
and those left behind
can never quite understand
why anybody
would ever want to
get away
from
them

We are like roses that have never bothered to
bloom when we should have bloomed and
it is as if
the sun has become disgusted with
waiting