#loveanddepression
You’ll regret crying in my hands—
but only because
you’ll miss the way they held you.
Your tears slip between my fingers
like quiet reminders
of how far you’ve run
from the person you used to be.
And still—
I know you remember your feet
each time they find their way
back to my door.
Instinct.
Muscle memory.
_Need._
You come back bare,
and I wear you like a crown—
delicate, dangerous,
balanced at the top of my thoughts.
You are the ache I prioritize.
The storm I drink from.
The wound I keep pressing,
just to feel something again.
While my friends fold hands
in prayer to Jehovah,
I’m just praying
my depression doesn’t **** me over.__
Sometimes I’d rather believe in your skin
than in heaven—
and sometimes,
I think your mouth is the closest
thing I’ll ever get to salvation.
So we drink.
We touch.
Not because it heals anything—
but because it delays
the end.
Darling,
we drink so this love doesn’t burn out.
We drink
instead of breaking up.
And when your mascara smudges
under my kiss,
when your sighs leave trails
from your stained makeup,
I taste the salt of your sadness—
hidden beneath powdered cheeks
and perfectly drawn lips.
We kiss
beneath mood lighting
and half-lies.
We are mature enough to drink,
and broken enough to
__make up__
in every way
the word
dares to mean.
Jun 17, 2025
Jun 17, 2025 at 2:50 PM UTC
He said... I've no feelings no more,
I'm just bleh.
I said...
That's okay, darling...
Bleh is not that bad,
Bleh is good for us.
As long as we bleh together... \(^-^)/
Aug 7, 2019
Aug 7, 2019 at 5:03 PM UTC