the invisible struggle that exists between wanting to write and not wanting people to know is named after you. late nights and sharpie scrawls on crumpled pieces of paper that will never see the outside of a trashcan. the insides of my eyelids and the paper slips kissed by dull pencil tips are the only ones who will ever know. 3 a.m is the closest thing I've ever had to a friend. the silence is deafening and sleeping is an impossible paradise because I belong on the opposite end of the world. somehow I know that no number of miles will suffice in the category of distance between our bodies. its been months but I still smell the alcohol on your breath that is a little too close to my ear. your hand by my thigh. a warmth on my neck that shouldn't even exist and I can hear myself saying no but my mouth isn't moving and I dont even ******* want to sit here and make rhymes about that night because you aren't ******* worth any of it. you aren't worth a ******* rhyme or a poem or a metaphor because you ruined *everything.