You joked about killing yourself,
that nobody would care
I know you well enough to know
it wasn’t serious
but it was to much for me to bear
Without second guessing I yelled across the parking lot..
…”me, I’d care”
It was a reaction I hadn’t thought about
I didn’t mean to yell it out
But I would be sadden by your death,
I confessed how much you meant to me
I’m tired of holding it in my chest,
letting it burrow in my hallow hole
that’s become a nest
For unsaid words and untaken actions,
all of my “what next”
What used to be an open embrace has become crossed arms and a cold face. I used to call you home, even though you are no place.
With staggered breathing, I’ve ran out of room to run. Back faced into a corner, left to deal with what I’ve done.
Driven you away which I knew would happen before we’d begun. We had never begun, I was so enticed with the run I forgot to take in my surroundings.
So I had never noticed you were never more than a blur I created due to my hallucinations, medicated. Induce by euphoria and the fear of being lonesome. Instead of building memories I decided to grow some, in the garden of my mind.
Constantly telling myself that I’m fine, but how fine can one be if it’s something to you have to constantly remind.
But I’d rather comfortably sit in the garden that I’ve grown, than face the reality that I’m truly alone.
Does the river run red?
Is it soft like the burning of your bloodshot eyes?
Is it wrong of me
to want to wander along the riverbed,
hoping to fall in?
Red rivers can’t stain what’s already covered in the stain of something that’s bled.
My taste for danger is never
which led to my spitting of
words late at night.
Only this time I’m unsure if you’ll return.
Did my words burn like the
feeling of flame to skin?
If so I’m familiar with
the singe left behind.
Touching the wound will never let it heal,
I’m not worried about that.
I’m worried that I can’t feel.
Take my advice, leave it be and I’ll try to do the same.
I’ll find a taste of danger elsewhere, away from your pain.
Lately, I’ve been choking on words I could never spit out. Daydreaming my way into thoughts of you that I tell myself I shouldn’t be thinking about.
But what am I left to do with the part of my mind that keeps retreating to you.
You’re like a bomb shelter placed close enough to shield me from the battlefield I call my life, that’s left holes in my soul like bullet wounds.
I’ve slowly realized that though you may not pierce me with anything more than words, the poisoned butterflies you’ve left in the pit of my stomach have began to form holes.
Unlike the guns that aimed their bullets through my skin, I didn’t see this coming.
Surely sometimes I had felt sick, I’ve just been so accustomed to feeling sick that I never seek help for anything I can’t view in plain sight.
And you were never more than a bomb shelter. You could help keep me safe while I healed myself, you were just never qualified to look after the damage.
And when I left, it was fair game. I could return with more wounds, but I’d always leave with the same.
I left, and I left..
Yet I always return again.
She touched me, although I’m not sure if she is a she. Her voice was my own, which is why I make this possibly false claim. Although there’s no face, and she has no name.
A quiet whisper is now a subtle voice, I felt her hands on my skin tonight. Telling me it would be okay, that I didn’t need anyone else that with me she’d stay. I’ve been so alone, that it was nice to feel warmth of her touch.
I’m not sure if that’s crazy, although I don’t care too much. Her skin was dark, not like skin but soot. I could nearly differentiate the shadows from where lay her foot.
This is not the first time, though this time I don’t want her to go. There’s this feeling of buzzing, this noise of which I cannot stray. She made it all go silent, within that moment I was okay.
I’m sorry I’m such an inconvenience.
I’m sorry all of your children are inconveniences
I just so happen to be the fucking easiest
The one you can tear down without hopes to build up again
I’m sorry I’m problematic at best
I’m sorry my psychologist blamed you for my traumatic childhood
I’m not fucking sorry that he told you, because we all know it’s true
You’ve hated my existence
as I’m not the child you wished for
I’m not sorry I’m gay,
I’m sorry I accepted that our family is dysfunctional
Im not fucking sorry that I tried to make you see it
I’m not sorry for anything at all
I’m only sorry you don’t believe it
She had spoken with silken words, and her tongue could spin thread better than any seamstress. With lips as delicate as rose petals, I watched them… wondering what roses taste like.
Though roses have thorns, and with thread comes needles. It was inevitable that eventually I would draw blood through her hands. It was unexpected that I would impale myself on such beauty, as to where I was afraid that my blood would taint the silk or wilt her roses.
But it was my hands that drew blood, she was never close enough to be near when it drips – you cannot ruin what lays not within your grips.
She hit me like waves hit the shore,
I may not have been ready
but now I am sure.
I would allow her sea of a heart
to fill my lungs without second guessing, to have her be the reason behind my
last breath would be a blessing.
To lock my hands in her
soft coffee-coloured hair, to feel
as though there was nothing else there;
Just her and I.. with bodies intertwined,
if I could hold onto her for one last night..
I would be more than fine.
I’m trying to prove that I am more than an empty rib cage, but how do I do that when I can’t feel my own heartbeat. When I’ve managed to match the hollow hole in my chest with every fibre of my being. I am nothing. I am nothing more than a memory, one that’s been left crying on the floor for far too long. The rips in my jeans bend at the knee, torn and worn from every time I couldn’t manage to pick myself up. I am nothing more than the empty bottles left lying in front of the door. The door that is my mind, one I’ve used to shut everyone out. I need not be pitied for my own mess, it is no fault but my own for this nothingness. I’ve become this nothingness. Nothing more than a walking hole, with a hollow mind and a broken soul. Nothing to offer other than my bruised limbs and the need to become whole.