i am very sorry for my absence.
once i knew the ocean loved me and that i could reflect down upon it and fill it up with my image and light. i was once the moon. and i swear i could feel that the ocean loved me.
ghosts with hearts. but not with breaths to speak of the feelings trapped inside them. little ghost. pretty ghost. hold my transparent fingers. kiss my see-through face.
Too sleepless to sleep.
I’m too tired to think
Wondering through the shallow end,
but still lower I sink.
i cant help but internalize every single word and glance. don’t tell me who i have loved and who i never did. you weren’t there. you didn’t feel me. you didn’t watch me suffer within myself. i had to move forward or i was going to bury myself farther down in to my belly. into my head. my mouth wouldn’t ever open again if i would have stayed.
i feel like i rub myself raw every time i speak. my eyelids feel like sandpaper whenever i look up at anything besides the floor. i just feel so old and worn out inside. just simple niceties leave me exhausted and i lay in my bed and want to cry every night but i’m empty and dry and nothing ever comes out.
but i don’t know if i really feel like that. i only feel like that part of the time. i don’t know why. i don’t know why i’m here. but i’m done fighting with the world trying to find that out. i just want to lock myself up with books, and blankets, and pull closed all the curtains and never think twice about anyone i’ve ever met again. i don’t want to be here anymore.
emotional moon fucker, let me go.
my heart fell out of my chest. but i picked it back up and put it into place without dusting it off. i can feel all the gravel inside me. it’s in my blood, on my tongue, grinding my teeth. i needed your voice again tonight. i almost didn’t want to say so, and maybe i still dont, but im saying it. i meant it when I told you how i felt about you, even with all the dirt and rocks and filth inside me, i meant it.
these pages have been cutting down the layers on my fingers ever since. it’s easier to think everything around me is scripted, played out, written down with a frantic hand, towards an already finished ending. every word and motion between here and there is just moving forward, twisted up and wrinkled with stupid, pointless imagery. useless soliloquies and character development filling up the bindings. i’m just waiting for the climax. i’m just waiting for my organs to come apart atom by atom and sentence by sentence. so i can flutter away like torn up pages and sleep where i want in any amount of garbage and dirt. at least i imagine my life this way. if i consider the plot structure for too long i can’t decide weather i’m the protagonist in this story or not. i’m just frantically flipping pages, cutting deeper into my skin, trying to prove i’m not.
i’m so tired, i’m too tired to sleep. i’m so hungry. i’m too hungry to even eat. i’m so sad. i’m too sad to even cry. i’m so happy. i’m too happy to even smile. i’m just too much of everything.
i don’t ever want to fall in love.
i miss sleeping in your bed. and i miss holding you and feeling you breathe against me. i miss it every night. i feel so alone in my own covers. i pretend that my blankets are your arms, and my pillows are your chest but even then, i think it makes me feel even more lonely, though. because they are not you, and i always remind myself.
(in my side)
(in my back)
broken up arrows
(in my eyes)
broken up arrows
(through my heart)
i just want to drink wine and lay in my bed while someone holds me and lets me cry into their chest. im tired.