You're asleep right next to me.
Your gentle breathing makes the most comforting sound I have ever heard.
The almost silent thump in your chest reminds me of my reason to love and live.
The way your lips are slightly parted and the way your hand is ruffled in the sheets and the way your hair is tousled within your other hand and the way you are finally,
you are finally at peace with yourself and the world.
In this very moment, where the world isn't real for you,
As I look at you,
The world just isn't real to me either.

He lavished you in compliments and told you that your eyes reminded him of the only home he's ever known. He made sure you believed him when he told you he wanted you. His arms when they wrapped around you, they really felt like they would never unclasp, that his intertwined fingers would never unzip. But they did, they stopped tangling up in you and they ripped apart, taking shards of you with them. His scent only lingered when you didn't want it to afterwards.
But the drive home changed all of that when he told you he wanted to see you again. You thought there was no way he had actually ripped the very protection you had from guys like him. But he had, and subconsciously, you knew he had. You didn't care.
It's okay, I think every girl denies it. But just know that whomever the boy was who claimed to love you when all he ever touched was your skin, he won't ever know what it was like to touch your mind or heart. And he can make you feel worthless but honestly, looking at you, we know he left the only thing that might've made him have notable worth. He used you.
So please, don't believe that he, someone who thinks it is okay to use people, can determine your worth. Because he's just trying to determine his own.

The alarm clock rang obnoxiously loud, for she was already wide awake, had been for the past twenty-six hours. It had been one hell of a whirlwind; the emotions she felt now were unique and she could never name them, only describe them. "Empty, numb." She would etch down into her notebook. "What rhymes with numb?" She tried to be so poetic, sometimes to the point where it drove her mad. "I feel like I've downed a bottle of ***." She tried rhyming it. Most of the time, the pages she had etched into would be thrown out or put into envelopes that were never meant to be mailed. Her life consisted of the unknown and the known together, which if you don't know, is horrific. "What if, what if." She'd write.
"What if he misses me too?"

And when I'm twenty-two
and I'm sitting on a balcony
with a cigarette in one hand
and a bottle in the other
and I have no extra hands
to get a grasp on my life,
maybe then you'll realize
what I meant when I told you
that people like me
weren't meant for people like you.