Your hands are weapons that know no mercy
You bring them to your face and draw a map
I trace the ridges, the bridges, the mountains
The clumps of skin that crisscross on your mouth
to feel alone when in ones arms
should make you question
who it is thats’s holding you
torn to know if this person is the one you should be with
And she’ll always feel like she doesn’t belong —
she’s not happy enough,
she’s not sad enough.
The overwelming wave of sadness when the last person you were able to text goes offline at 3AM and you're alone in your bed just thinking about what comes next.
A "poem" every day.
I'm becomming sadder every day, and it starts to cost more and more. I'm tired of existing, of living like this.
until your lights come undone
And the sun deport its creators
And seek you instead;
Every person you came to love was already dead and they shoved their corpses and broken teeth down your throat like a blackhole branch and nostalgic chaos
cremating all the bodies they’ve occupied, but still it tasted too familiar to your common sense that you let it.
Or is it okay as long as it's spoiler free, and less relevant to your story standards, and case scenario?
Everything hits different at night
A "poem" every day.
to feel the sun kissed heat
to feel the burnt sand on your feet
to get numb caused by a swim on the beach
It’s okay to just be you.
Without pretending to put the smile
You thought will do.
- Summers she never missed.
Inspired by my summer getaway, to a friend who apologized because she cried in front of me.
I buried one friend last August,
I buried another one last month,
For a year I’ve struggled to help another friend over come addition and failed,
Another person: who kept me sane through my wild teenage years, buried his girlfriend recently, and in turn buried l his feelings with drugs and alcohol, we celebrated his one year of sobriety only a few months ago, no one ever mentioned how morbid your 20’s could be.
So inclusion I think pharmaceutical company’s should have to include “ heartbreak” on their labels, as a side effect too opioids.
I know death is just another part of life, but I never thought I’d have to deal with so much of it before I’d even lived a quarter of a century. Reality is a harsh mistress.
I've had all day to work.
Yet I procrastinate until the next–
At 3:30 I'm so exhausted,
I don't even feel alive anymore.
It feels unreal.
I haven't eaten for seven hours.
I fear that going to the kitchen to fill myself
Will awaken the family
Out of their gentle sleep,
And into my reality:
My task gives me so much anxiety.
I put it off.
I don't think about it.
I rid it from my mind.
Until 3:30 am.
Her eyes glistened with unshed tears
While the 3am darkness haunts her
Reminding her of her lost ones
A part of her forever gone
Pieces of her still remains
Only to be shattered and lost
By those that devour the innocence
With smiles so deceiving, plastered on their faces.