Submit your work, meet writers and drop the ads. Become a member
Bryan Lunsford Apr 2018
My brain bleeds and the ceiling drips,
As you couldn't believe how much fun doing acid actually is,
With the walls that breathe–I see things that don't even exist,
Where I'm pondering deeply over and over, I ponder this,
Is this reality that I see real or is it all a complete myth,
And what else will I see if I take just a couple more hits?
s Oct 2018
i looked in my mirror and saw you in the reflection
all battered and ****** and clearly infected

by the demons who sought to poison you each night
and the venom i'd spit whenever we'd fight

so now you treat me as your ***** secret
but i'm not some drug that you can keep hidden

and i won't stand here, alone and awaiting
a love that is pure, because i am not patient

still, since you've left it only ever rains
as i stand outside drenched in my own shame

cause you used to kiss me extra ******* these days
           you used to kiss me extra ******* these days
wake up vomiting
wake up alone
who knew this love
would turn heart to stone
it's much too late
to ever atone
for all that is lost.

i'm already gone.
Michael Marchese Jul 2018
I need only to smirk and you’re mine
Anytime
If it’s god that you want
I have dozens in mind
Devilishly divine
Bending time like a grandeur delusional
Spine  

In a mad hatter ectoplas-mystical slime
A prismatic drug addict’s first nursery rhyme
Of accursed hearse verses of graphic design
Now to lay to rest intellect spectacles musing
Of selves glorified more than those of my choosing
To deify Destiny’s
Deathly serenity
Plentifully sending me vibrant surprises
And penning my ending in violent demises
Disguises surmised by the climate arises
Girl always there riding my similar waves
As I try to save face digging mechanized graves

But the cloud tentacles
To the depths
Drag me down
To demented ascension
Black holes in the ground
Where disciples of light
And my huntress in white
Vivify me by day
Resurrect me at night
To instruct and deduct
Reasoning in a state
Of a being supreme
Contemplating its fate
spacewalker Dec 2017
take a trip with me
take a hit
come touch the stars
in a blimp
fly through space with me
chase bright blue cats
hit stars with baseball bats
let's shoot wisps of rainbows
from our fingertips
let's make out in the shade of blue
and dark purple
and green too
let's sit on the couch
and get lost in the haze
soar to the moon
color all the grays
one more trip
and then i'm through
So bye for now
Little moon
I've been acquainted with the following
psychoactive compounds;
Depressants & Dissociatives:
Ethanol / drinking alcohol
(3-methylbutyl) nitrite / Amyl Nitrite / Poppers
β-Phenyl-γ-aminobutyric acid / PhGABA / Phenibut
γ-Hydroxybutyric acid / GHB / G, fantasy
Morphine / *****
Thebaine / Paramorphine
Codeine / 3-Methylmorphine
Dihydrocodeine / DHC
Tramadol / Ultram
Chlordiazepoxide / Librium
Diazepam / ******
2'-Chlorodiazepam / Ro5-3448 / Diclazepam
4'-Chlorodiazepam / Ro5-4864
Alprazolam / Xanax
Clonazolam, Clonitrazolam / Clam
Etizolam / Etilaam, Etizest
Quetiapine / Seroquel
Thiopental / Sodium Pentothal
Promethazine / Phenergan
Nitrous Oxide / N2O / NOs, laughing gas
Dextromethorphan / DXM / Benylin, Robitussin
Ketamine [racemic] / K, Kitty
Esketamine [S-isomer] / Special K
Deschloroketamine / 2'-Oxo-PCM / DXE / DCK
Methoxetamine / 3-MeO-2'-Oxo-PCE / MXE /  Mexxy
3-Methoxyphencyclidine / 3-MeO-***
Zopiclone / Zimovane
Stimulants & Nootropics:
Benzoylmethylecgonine / ******* / Charlie, nose candy
1,3,7-Trimethylpurine-2,6-dione / Caffeine / Coffee, Black Tea
N-Ethyl-L-glutamine / L-Theanine / [constituent of] Green Tea
3,7-dimethylxanthine / Theobromine / [constituent of] Chocolate
2-Hydroxy-N,N,N-trimethylethan-1-aminium / Choline bitartrate
L-alpha glycerylphosphorylcholine / Alpha-GPC, Choline alfoscerate
Cytidine 5'-diphosphocholine / CDP-choline, Citicoline
2-Dimethylaminoethyl (4-chlorophenoxy)acetate / Meclofenoxate
N-Phenylacetyl-L-prolylglycine ethyl ester / Noopept
Coluracetam / BCI-540
(R,S)-2-(2-oxo-4-phenylpyrrolidin-1-yl)acetamide / 4-Phenylpiracetam
(RS)-1-(1-methylethylamino)-3-(1-naphthyloxy)pr­opan-2-ol / Propranolol
(±)-2-Benzhydrylsulfinylethanehydroxamic acid / Adrafinil
(±)-2-[(Diphenylmethyl)sulfinyl]acetamide / Modafinil
(–)-2-[(R)-(diphenylmethyl)sulfinyl]acetamide / Armodafinil
(S)-3-[1-Methylpyrrolidin-2-yl]pyridine / Nicotine / Tobacco
3,4,8-Trimethoxyphenanthrene-2,5-diol / Dendrobium Nobile
Mesembrine / Sceletium Tortuosum, Kanna
3,4-Methylenedioxymethamphetamine / MDMA / Molly, Mandy, ecstasy
3,4-Methylenedioxymethcathinone / MDMC / βk-MDMA / Methylone
β-Keto-methylbenzodioxolylpentanamine / βk-MBDP / Pentylone
α-Methylphenethylamine / αMP / Amphetamines / Speed
4-Fluoroamphetamine / 4-FMP, 4-FA /  PAL-303 / Flux
2-Fluoromethamphetamine / 2-FMA
4-Methoxyamphetamine / PMA, 4-MA / Death
3-Methylmethcathinone / 3-MMC / Metaphedrone
4-Methylmethcathinone / 4-MMC / Mephedrone
4-Methylethcathinone / 4-MEC
4-Chloromethcathinone / 4-CMC / Clephedrone
4-Fluoromethcathinone / 4-FMC / Flephedrone
4-Fluoro-α-methylaminovalerophenone / 4-Fluoropentedrone / 4-FPD
α-Ethylaminocaprophenone / N-Ethylhexedrone / NEH / Hexen
4-desoxy-MDA / 6-(2-Aminopropyl)-2,3-dihydrobenzofuran / 6-APDB
Clobetasol Propionate / Temovate, Dermovate
4-chloro-N-(2-morpholin-4-ylethyl)benzamide / Moclobemide
NSI-189
5-Hydroxytryptophan / 5-HTP / Oxitryptan
Escitalopram / Cipralex, Lexapro
Fluoxetine / Prozac
Tianeptine / Coaxil, Stablon, Tatinol
Venlafaxine / Effexor
Hallucinogens & Psychedelics:
Δ9-Tetrahydrocannabinol / THC / Cannabis Sativa/Indica, Marijuana
Cannabidiol / CBD / Herbal Cannabis, Cannabis Resin
AM-2201 / Synth-'noid, Spice
NM-2201 / CBL-2201
5C-AB-PINICA
Harmine / Peganum Harmala / Syrian Rue
Salvinorin A  / Salvia Divinorum / Diviner's Sage
d-Lysergic acid amide / d-Lysergamide / LSA / Ergine
Lysergic acid diethylamide / Lysergide / LSD / Acid, Lucy
1-Acetyl-lysergic acid diethylamide / 1A-LSD / ALD-52
1-Propionyl-lysergic acid diethylamide / 1P-LSD
6-Allyl-6-nor-lysergic acid diethylamide / AL-LAD / Aladdin
2,5-Dimethoxy-4-methylamphetamine / DOM / Dominic
2,5-Dimethoxy-4-bromoamphetamine / DOB / Aphrodite
2,5-Dimethoxy-4-chloroamphetamine / DOC / Doctor
2,5-Dimethoxy-4-methylthioamphetamine / DOT / Aleph
2,5-Dimethoxy-4-iodophenethylamine / 2C-I / Infinity
2,5-Dimethoxy-4-ethylphenethylamine / 2C-E / Eternity
2,5-Dimethoxy-4-bromophenethylamine / 2C-B / Nexus
2,5-Dimethoxy-4-methylthiophenethylamine / 2C-T / Tesseract
2,5-Dimethoxy-4-ethylthiophenethylamine / 2C-T-2 / Rosy
2,5-Dimethoxy-4-fluoroethylthiophenethylamine / 2C-T-21 / Aurora
2,5-Dimethoxy-4-bromo-β-keto-phenethylamine / βk-2C-B
2,3,6,7-Benzo-dihydro-difuran-8-bromo-ethylamine / 2C-B-FLY
2,5-Dimethoxy-N-(2-methoxybenzyl)-4-bromophenethylamine / 25B
2,5-Dimethoxy-N-(2-methoxybenzyl)-4-chlorophenethylamine / 25C
2,5-Dimethoxy-N-(2-methoxybenzyl)-4-iodophenethylamine / 25I
3,4-Methylenedioxyamphetamine / MDA / Sass, Sally
3,4,5-Trimethoxyphenethylamine / Mescaline / M
3,5-Dimethoxy-4-ethoxyphenethylamine / Escaline / E
3,5-Dimethoxy-4-methallyloxyphenethylamine / Methallylescaline / MAL
N,N-dimethyltryptamine / DMT / The Spirit / Dmitri
N,N-dipropyltryptamine / DPT / The Light
N-Methyl-N-ethyltryptamine / MET / The Colour
N-Methyl-N-isopropyltryptamine / MiPT / The Touch
4-Hydroxy-dimethyltryptamine / 4-**-DMT / Psilocin
4-Acetoxy-dimethyltryptamine / 4-AcO-DMT / Psilacetin
4-Hydroxy-N-methyl-N-ethyltryptamine / 4-**-MET / Metocin
4-Acetoxy-N-methyl-N-ethyltryptamine / 4-AcO-MET / Metacetin
4-Phosphoryloxy-N,N-dimethyltryptamine / 4-PO-DMT / Psilocybin
4-AcO-N-Me-N-cyclopropyltryptamine / 4-AcO-McPT / Mecypracetin
4-Acetoxy-N-methyl-N-isopropyltryptamine / 4-AcO-MiPT / Mipracetin
4-Hydroxy-N-methyl-N-isopropyltryptamine / 4-**-MiPT / Miprocin
5-Methoxy-N,N-diallyltryptamine / 5-MeO-DALT / Foxtrot
5-Methoxy-N-methyl-N-isopropyltryptamine / 5-MeO-MiPT / Moxy
‒=≡End of Line≡=–
Losers
can't help
but keep score.
You've filled yourself
With so much bitterness
I can't
Stomach you.
Like acid on my teeth
You rot all you come
In contact with.
September Roses Mar 2018
Little house
Timeless street
Childhood garden

The scent of your preschool playground after a storm on a Wednesday in may

The distinguishable noise of your parents' doorbell

The weepy feeling looking at childhood photos and knowing you'll never get those moments back

The melancholy moment you realize the book you're reading was your favorite bedtime story

The second the atmosphere shifts and you're suddenly thrown back to memories of your mothers embrace on a stormy night

The suffocating feeling of revisiting tales thinning at the ends as your recollection slowly fades

The slipping grip of what once was that will never be again, slowly turning faded and acid washed until its nothing but a feeling you cant put a name to

Nostalgia
Akemi Jan 4
The Ache is leaving. Three years languished by dead end jobs, drugs and friends. Last week above a bagel store, the sun morphs mute amidst travelling clouds, indifferent fluctuations of light on an otherwise featureless day.

You arrive a tight knot of anxieties over a moment in time that could only have arrived after its departure. The Ache welcomes you into their sparse interior. You trace last month’s 21st across the black mould complex; navigate piles of stacked boxes, unsure if anything is inside of them.

“I always make the best friends in departure,” the Ache says, flipping a plushy up and down by the waist.

“Maybe you can only love that which is already lost,” you reply, with an insight a friend will give you a week later.

The acid tastes bitter under your tongue. Small marks your body bursting, a glowing radiance of interconnections you’d always had but only now begun to feel. The Ache follows suit and you sit on the couch together to watch .hack//Legend of the Twilight. The come up entangles you in the spectacle; the screaming boy protagonist, the chipped tooth gag, the moe sister in need of saving from the liminal space of dead code. You take part in it; you revel in it. Bodies morph on the surface of the screen in hyperflat obscenity, their parts interchangeable to the affect of the drama. Faces invert, break and disfigure, before reformation into the self-same identity form.

A month earlier, you’d hosted a house show at your flat. Too anxious to perform you’d dropped a tab as you’ve done now. An overbearing sensation of too-much-ness — of sickening reality — washed through the nexus of your being. You writhed on the ground screaming into a microphone as a cacophony of sounds roiled through you. Everyone cheered.

The floor rose later that night. A damp, disgusting intensity that triggered contractions in your throat and chest. Pulled to the ground, you fought off your bandmate’s advances, too shocked to express your revulsion and horror, to react accordingly, to reconstitute a border of consensual sociality. You broke free and slurred “I’m no one’s! I’m no one’s!” before running out of the room. Hours later, you tried to comfort them. Weeks later, you realised how ******* ******* that had been. Months later, you learnt their friend had committed suicide days before the show.

Back in the lounge, a prince rides onto the screen on a pig. You turn to the Ache and say “This is ******* awful.”

The Ache responds “I know right?”

Outside the world burns blue with lustre. The Ache trails you and falls onto their stomach. “Oh my god,” the Ache blurts, “this is why I love acid. Everything just feels right.” They gaze wistfully at the grasses and flowers before them; catch a whiff of asphalt and nectar, intermingled. “Like, gender isn’t even a thing, you know? Just properties condensed into a legible sign to be disciplined by heteronormative governmentality.”

“Properties! Properties!” You chant, stomping around the Ache with your arms stretched out. You wave them in the air like windmills. You bare your teeth. “Properties! Properties!”

“You know what I mean, right?” The Ache asks, pointedly. “You know what I mean?”

You continue chanting “Properties!” for another minute or two, before spotting a slug on a blade of grass beneath your feet. You fall to your knees and gasp “It’s a slug!”

You and the Ache stare at the tiny referent for an indefinite period of time, absorbed in its glistening moistures. Eventually, the Ache says “I think it’s actually a snail.”

You used to read postmodern novels on acid. You loved their exploration of hyperreality; their dissection of culture as a system of meaning that arises out of our collective, desperate attempts to overcome the indifference of facticity. Read symptomatically, culture does not reveal unseen depths in the world, but rather, constitutes shallow networks of sprawling complexity — truth effects — illusions of mastery over an, otherwise, undifferentiated and senseless becoming.

Then one day, the world overwhelmed you. Down the hall, your flatmates sounded an eternal return. As they spoke in joyous abandon you traced the lines from their mouths — found their origin in idiot artefacts of Hollywood Babylon. The joy of abstraction you once relished in your books took on an all too direct horror. You recoiled. You bound your lips in hysteria, for fear of becoming another repeating machine of an all too present culture industry. Better dumb than banal — better to say nothing at all, than everything that already was and would ever be. You cried and cried until everyone left — until you were alone with your silence and your tears and your nonexistent originality.

Dusk falls in violet streaks. You reach your room on the second floor of the building, open the bedside window and stick your legs out into a cool breeze. The Ache joins you. Danny Burton, the local MP, arrives in his van, his smiling bald face plastered on its side like an uncanny double enclosing its original.

“Hey look, it’s Danny Burton, the local MP.” Danny Burton turns his head. He glares at your dangling feet for a few seconds before entering his house. “You know, this is the first time in three years he’s looked at me and it’s at the peak of my degeneracy.” You turn to the Ache. “One of my favourite past times is watching him wander around the house at night, ******* and unsure of himself. He always goes to check on his BBQ.” You bounce on the bed in mania.

“See this is what people do, right?” the Ache says, mirroring your excitement. “Like, look at that lady walking her dog.” The Ache motions, with a cruel glint in their eyes, to the passerby on the fast dimming street. “What do you think she gets out of that? Doing that every night?” Without waiting for you to respond, the Ache answers, in a low, sarcastic tone “I guess she gets enjoyment. Doing her thing. Like everyone else.” The lady and the dog disappear beyond the curve of the road. Another pair soon arrives, taking the same path as the one before.

A few months back, you’d met an old friend at an exhibition on intersectional feminism. After the perfunctory art, wine and grapes, she drove you home, back to your run down flat in an otherwise bourgeois neighbourhood. She sat silent as the sun set before the dashboard, then asked how anyone could live like this; how anyone could stand driving out of their perfect suburban home, at the same time every morning, to work the same shift every day, for the rest of their stupid life. The dull ache of routine; the slow, boring death. You said nothing. You said nothing because you agreed with her.

“Life began as self-replicating information molecules,” you reply, obliquely. “Catalysis on superheated clay pockets. Repetition out of an attempt to bind the excess of radiant light.”

It is dark now; a formless hollow, pitted with harsh yellow lamps of varying, distant sizes. The Ache flips onto their stomach and scoffs “What’s that? We’re all in this pointless repetition together?”

You respond, cautiously “I just don’t think that being smart is any better than being stupid; that our disavowed repetitions are any worthier than anyone else’s.”

The Ache returns your gaze with an intensity you’ve never seen before. “Did I say being smart was any better? Did I say that? Being smart is part of the issue. There is no trajectory that doesn’t become a habitual refrain. When you can do anything, everything becomes rote, effortless and pointless.

“But don’t act as if there’s no difference between us and these ******* idiots,” the Ache spits, motioning into the blackness beyond your frame. “I knew this one guy, this complete and utter ****. We went to a café, and he wouldn’t stop talking about the waitress, about how hot she was, how he wanted to **** her, while she was in earshot, because, I don’t know, he thought that would get him laid.

“Then we went for a drive and he failed a ******* u-turn. He just drove back and forth, over and again. A dead, automatic weight. A car came from the other lane, towards us, and waited for him to finish, but he stopped in the middle of the street and started yelling, saying **** like, ‘what does this ******* want?’ He got out of his car, out of his idiot u-turn, and tried to start a fight with the other driver — you know, the one who’d waited silently for him to finish.”

You don’t attempt a rebuttal; you don’t want to negate the Ache’s experience. Instead, you ask “Why were you hanging out with this guy in the first place?”

The Ache responds “Because I was alone, and I was lonely, and I had no one else.”

It is 2AM. Moths dance chaotic across the invisible precipice of your bedside window, between the inner and outer spaces of linguistic designation. There is a layering of history here — of affects and functions that have blurred beyond recognition — discoloured, muted, absented.

In the hollow of your bed, the Ache laughs. You don’t dare close the distance. Sometimes you find the edges of their impact and trace your own death. All your worries manifest without content. All form and waver and empty expanse where you drink deeply without a head. Because you have lost so much time already. And nothing keeps.

Months later, after the Ache has left, you will go to the beach. You will see the roiling waves beneath crash into the rocky shore of the esplanade, a violence that merges formlessly into a still, motionless horizon, for they are two and the same. You will be unable to put into words how it feels to know that such a line of calm exists out of the pull and push of endless change, that it has existed long before your birth and will exist long after your death.

The last lingering traces of acid flee your skin. Doused in tomorrow’s stupor, you close your eyes. You catch no sleep.
“Self-destruction is simply a more honest form of living. To know the totality of your artifice and frailty in the face of suffering. And then to have it broken.”
Akemi Sep 2018
lay low
make yourself a nervous fit
imperfect replication

here no one’s happy
staring down narrow paths
burning out the cells
lining their guts

words are worthless.
slow subsumption into academia, narrow tract, staring past the shoulder of every colleague, ten page manuscript of Foucault, perfect distillation of praxis into pure theory, words on a page, exploit the exploiters by using their vouchers at the mexican restaurant down the road, get what you can out of this ****** institution, on non-tenured, precarious part time labour, planning a 30 part lecture series in the weekend because these ******* ******* need their half a million in salaries while all the understaffed lecturers suffer, i ******* hate this place, these ******* managerial ******* ******* **** ******* **** **** ****
I need an acid wash and a raku fire
Roll me in leaves and set me on fire
Glaze me brilliant pink, gold-silver metallics
Turquoise tones...
I looked into the eyes of a lizard today
Saw evolution pass before me in a flash
I dreamed of you last night it was of lust not love
For I do not know you...Just a dream
Is this for love or lust?
I gotta know
Wanna be in love and have it feel like lust
English Jam Aug 2018
Before the screen turns to black
And the credits roll
And the curtain shuts
And there's no more control
I'd like to take a cigarette
To the parallel lines who never met and the spaces in between
And wish we'd never forget
The people painting the backdrop behind the scenes
Well, we'll always remember for a moment
The parting of Olympus and the gods making love above our heads
But the gods have all faced the court of age
And Apollo was torn apart by infinity on the stage
And the moment that we held dear in our hearts has blown over like the wind, been kicked open like a door, caught fire and burned like a mountain
It's gone, love

I guess I have to pack my clothes
And cast out all my hopes
Drowning in the sour milk sea, where dreams are shell carcasses of suicide
The sour milk sea, a flash flood of regret curling into a tide
The sour milk sea, where the only texture your fingers touch is the acid guzzling from your ears
The sour milk sea, where the sailors wrap themselves in a blanket of jabs and jeers

         Time to fade away
datanami Feb 1
Organic Simili Samba
Orchestra Electronica
Writing TV, Watching Music
Reality Distortion Field

It Becomes Like Another World
Giant Gutter from Outer Space
Artificial Intelligence
Intergalactic Existence

-

Open Gates of Ancient Knowledge
Archetypal Architecture
Low Resolution Universe
Dark Pineapples & Chocolate

New Operative Perspective
Unbreakable Circuits of Love
Dance the Spiral Never Ending
And the Colours Made the Earth Sing
16/64 Psytrance song titles, sorted in mirror alphabetic (ascending by last letter)
My pain is not a poem,
my poetry isn't poetic.
It's cryptic and a message,
cutting up and breaking
branches. Comprehensive;
my poems are suicidal, files of
medications and prescriptions
are seemingly all my mind
can write. Jumping to conclusions
and indenting my addictions,
inflicting this confliction, convictions
I don't mention. Those rhymes that
I have wrote; it was the drowning as I broke,
a broken draft of notes, that sing:
 "you'll never learn to float,"
Acid, or is it water?  
I'm hoping for the latter,
well I guess it never mattered,
years doubled and I'm sadder.
When does it get better?  
When do I get better?  
I guess it never will, and I'm
home but I'm not here,
I'm stuck, I'm stuck, I'm stuck,
and all my heart
can pump is tears-
All feedback is appreciated and welcome!
I'm brOKen Jan 2018
Your acid gnaws at my wounds
My wounds bloom for the world to see
Your acid's slowly killing me.

Your venom flows in my veins
It cause me so much hurt and pain
Forever, shall it poison me?
Your vemon's slowly killing me
I am suffering in silence
I lack energy
Slow to move
Lack motivation
Less interested
Hide
Doom &
Gloom
Sleep more sleep
How did  it get this bad.
Serendipity Dec 2018
My soul is tripping on aesthetical acid.

Star dust is my *******.

There's no way the moon
is not just a hallucination
wavering in the pond's ripples. 

I pop sunrays like pills.
Bathe in warm illicit senses.
Heat overtakes me,
on a high I refuse to come down from.

Beauty is a drug; it takes away the pain.
a.
i'm hooked on existence

b.
time is a river,
memory is a fountain

c.
what is intangible shall remain

d.
reality is relative

e.
A god's pupils were never so dilate

f.
wave/particle duality, eternal/infinite singularity

g.
arcadian theoxeny

h.
lost palindrome

i.
through venturous exploits, discovery awaits

j.
urban streetlamps' radiant bloom

k.
run for it,
feel it

l.
take me away

m.
contradiction is our benediction,
to acknowledge hypocrisy

n.
human difference engine

o.
"the strangest life I've ever known"

p.
interstellar weather: hear the void in november

q.
let's break perception

r.
sinful philanthropy

s.
sociality, society, what to make to it

t.
sly, sardonic, cynical and wicked

u.
neon euphoria;
we bring rapture unto the night

v.
breathe with me

w.
like a steam engine eats black diamonds are my pupils

x.
rainy daze in winter ecstasy

y.
acid cyclone on the horizon

z.
love, and ketamine
{[lower-case](subjective)}
Iskra Aug 2018
Laying in my bed curled up
Acid in my throat because I didn’t eat
Clenching my fists around my blankets because I can’t sleep

Are you thinking of me?
Laying in a tent, uncomfortably,
Snuggling close to your fluffy white dog or your younger brother to stay warm.

Are you missing me?
No. Not the way I’m missing you
You’re not thinking of me the way I’m thinking of you
And though it means the world to me that a beautiful soul like yours is friends with a storm cloud like me, it shatters my heart into thousands of sharp, jagged pieces that you’re
~ just ~
my friend.

“I’m sorry but I need to know, is it mutual? It’s alright if it’s a no, I can handle it, I just want you...to be honest”
A pause...
Then the raindrop falls.
“Right now, it’s a no”

Ripples.
Right now.
Right now.
Right now.
No.
No.
No.
STOP.
I care about you so much, I know I need to let you go, so you would never read this, and I would never show anyone this.
It’s all swirling around in my chest, faster and faster until it explodes, word ***** and tears.
I love you.

I didn’t tell you I loved you, only that I had feelings for you.
Why bother? It would’ve made things more painful for me, more bitter for you.

But I can’t show you this.
I don’t want you to change.
I don’t want you to change the way you speak to me, to change your mind when you’re about to type a heart emoji,
to stop yourself after just saying “goodnight” and leave out the “baby”

This is my undoing, not yours, and I want you to keep letting me be your anchor, your shoulder, your shield, my open arms waiting to catch you when you tumble from your flight.
I can’t keep loving you, I can’t stop loving you.
I want to stop feeling at all.
Thank you all so much for all your compassion and the amazing comments. Your kindness brought me to tears. I’d send hugs and healing (if I could) to those of you who commented because you’re experiencing the same thing right now, and I promise you, even though it hurts like hell now, it does get better.
neha May 2016
you're poison
with an acid tongue and words that burn

you're poison
with a knife in hand whenever i turn

you're

P
  O
     I
        S
           O
                N

but why can't I hate you as much as I hate myself?
Next page