The tide is back in my head again.
The bottles are full, the floor is still an ocean,
And I am drunk-texting a future version of myself.
I'm telling myself about this certain type of forgiveness-
The version I tried to suppress everytime you couldn't accept it.
I gave you nothing for so long I thought you'd fall in love with at least re-opening the non-existent wounds,
And now here you are painting scars upon them and showing them to me,
And I don't know what to do and,
I'll never know what to do but,
This is where it ends,
Yes,
This is how I leave you.

The tide is back in my head again.
- I only leave you when the room is spinning.
My head is a confession booth and its like you're sinning on purpose.
Continually hurting yourself or someone else so that you can come into my memories and
try and tell me about it without saying anything at all. (I only listen to you when you're not speaking.)
I started believing in ghosts when I saw apparitions of myself smiling without knowing you existed-
I once lived with a fear of death, prayed to be immortal and to keep on finding myself hungry to know more-
Now I find myself lucky to have a day where I care more about continuing and care less about remaining stationary.
Maybe I want you to feel the pain of a sunken ship only mimicking the illusion of a boat cast on waves it no longer wants or knows how to sail-
Maybe I want you to know how it feels like to love you.

The tide is back in my head again.
I created a soundtrack for all these recent nights and it just turned into the sound of your voice repeating the secrets I dont remember telling you.
There is a drawer in my room and I've filled it with something that both creates and destroys me because
you claimed you would do both but only ended up doing the latter.
One day I'll stop being haunted by things that can't actually touch me -
One day I'll find a bottle that won't have you at the bottom of it.
But for now I have nothing else.
So, I'm poisoning myself everynight and claiming that it is self-mortification.
I cannot forgive myself but,
I have no other outlet so,
This is where it ends,
Yes,
This is how I leave you.

is simply to believe
that some thoughts
are so beautiful
that they could not
not be shared.

Why do we think
love will fix us
and make us whole

When in the end
it just leaves us
more broken than before

Crimson dream held a glass of white;
last thought I thought when mind matched night.

First thought I think when mind matches day:
Crimson dream is miles, miles away.

The other day,
a man driving on the wrong side of the road
crashed into a pick up truck, killing himself instantly.
It reminds me of how you'll leave.
Lately, I've found myself drifting onto the left lane
and it makes me wonder about all of the people
that have died this way,
if they just couldn't tell their left from their right
or if they, too, were trying to go back to the past.