Isn't it kinda crazy when you can actually feel yourself breaking.

Like when you tap a plate and can tell if it's going to crack
Or something like that.
My mum taught me it's something like that.

And life's funny cause all while you're breaking it continues.
And you're making a strangers morning latte
And you're listening to other people ask your favourite lecturer questions
And you might be about to fall to pieces.

Sometimes I wonder if I'm ever actually going to break.
Sometimes I think I broke ages ago and just gathered the biggest pieces,
Leaving the small shards of myself behind.

I don't love myself yet
But I dislike myself less than I did yesterday.

I will pour my love into you,
Saving myself no emergency reservoir,
Deeming you deserving as soon as
You said you "have not felt love before".

I will forget and forgive in a second,
to enable me to love you more,
and treat you like you walk on clouds
All because you said you have only ever experienced prickly affection.

I will hug you tightly with love,
and you will swamp me with yours
grateful to have someone to give it to.

I will fall for you,
harder and faster than I have ever fell before.
Unaware that I have been pushed
by your claims of inexperienced love.

Art flows out of your brain,
Beauty pours from your pen,
Your words enchant people,
So write today, and write tomorrow, and write again

How well you weave your web,
For me to fly straight into,
How well you teach me how to love,
Even when you don't mean to.

Watch me crack myself open
To let myself love you

Only for you to disregard the broken parts
Like you aren't the reason for the raw edges

"Pick me up and put me back together"
He said,
Not realising she didn't recognise most of the pieces

I give you permission to use me,
Today I choose toxicity over solidarity.

How many times do I have to say "I love you"
Before you start seeing you are worthy, and easy, to love.

Today the words don't come to me.
I write and the rhythm is not automatic.
I search for the rhymes
And they sound stiff and easy to predict.

Today the title: writer
Is accompanied by an echo of "amateur".
The reverberance - a chain of disclaimers
Trying to excuse the behaviour.

Today the writer feels her words wilting,
As though the world has already heard them all,
And she can't find an escape in writing
Her mind feigning obsolescence - a blunt tool.

Today the writer feels
Like not so much of a writer,
But maybe that's because the words she needs to say
Aren't yet ready to be shared on paper.

You would have died for me.
All I ever wanted was for you to show me how to live.

I've always been happy
Thinking alone,
Always been content
At home on my own.

Yet lately I'm finding,
The dictionary is true,
I am still happy alone,
But now I get lonely too.

We used to think together
As a battle we liked to play,
Our thoughts would fight
laboriously every day,
And although I loved you
And you loved me
Our thoughts decided
We simply weren't meant to be.

I feel like "orange",
Nobody rhymes with me,
I am bright and bold and delicious
And I am loved...

But I am alone.
I am unpaired.