We were one
In a million pieces
Scattered on the floor

Before time shattered
The door

Our love
Was infinite
Or so it seemed

Now my heart is broken
And I don't know what
That means

You're still
Here

Hello..

Hi..

Not you, the witch
I need a hug.        
came a long way.
tired.

From?

She knows, she does

She is not here

never mind
' be outside
that bench there
in cold

Till she comes?

.

Sometimes I sit down and think, “Is this all there is to life?”
Compartmentalize my feelings of sadness, joy, and excitement into boxes
Some of which stack higher than others and tumble down into subcategories
Times I was sad because of my period, because of school, because of ----

Other times I stand up and I don’t think, “I am completely satisfied with life.”
Because I am not
I look at cracked paint on walls and study the paths the minuscule crevices decided to take
So easily permanent and there

My head has established a tyranny of overthinking and anxiety that boxes with itself
Left, right, no left, up, maybe down, sideways, maybe
Too much to think and my brain can’t seem to understand there is still time to think
No decision has to be made about anything ever just yet not yet maybe

I understand time casts an infinite shadow
It forever runs out even though it’s nowhere near the finish line
It’s always running out
Always leaving me breathless

A million you's
Existing all at once
All different people
But still you
 
The you known by your ex lover
The you known by your childhood friend
The you known by a sibling
 
So many versions of you
That people see differently
That people see separately
 
You exist a thousand times through other people
Somewhere there's a you
That you might be embarrassed of
 
Somewhere there's a you
That you might be proud of
 
All of these you's
Are simply a small piece of a raw you
The you that is sitting here
 
Reading this
Thinking of all the you's
That people carry around with them

It *****, y'know,
life & ****.
Everything *****,

sometimes.

But I guess
that's what makes it
good too,

sometimes.

It seems that
'always'
is the enemy
of emotion.

Or at least

sometimes

it is.

One cannot be without another
Some are connected
and cannot live without each other
Call it love, or more an illusion
But the feeling is real
Like an explosion of stimuli and emotions
A band that cannot be broken
And nothing that breaks the bubble