I’m so used to writing out of sadness, that I’m unsure how to write about you. I’ve written about dark places and empty faces. How ex-lovers stripped colour from my world like I was nothing more than a scrapped canvas in their art exhibit. I’ve found difficulties in wording how you’ve slowly brought it back. That with each kiss on my lips placed by yours is filling each blank space in my heart like watercolour, bleeding love into every crack.
When one is so used to finding beauty in darkness, they’re often blinded by the light.
when they said his name, I didn’t think of the way his hand touched mine. for a second I forgot about the words I spit from my mouth when his tried to taste my tongue. no, I thought of when he spoke your name and asked what I saw in you. I remember that night you kept me safe when his hungry eyes saw me as nothing more than a mouse to chase. I may not remember that night, but I’ll never forget that in my darkest hours you were my light. I was the match and you were my flame. now you’re nothing but a burned out wick and I’m smoke in the wind. memories of us have began to fade but I’ll never forget how we burned together.
dear god, we could have set the world on fire.
I taste beer off of strangers tongues, reminds me of when our lips met on your fathers deck. The smell always made me sick but how I wish I could have one more chance to run my hand around your neck. To hold you on a couch that’s just small enough for two, and how scared I was of falling in love but you made it easy to.
Oh how I wish there was still something between me and you
Don’t leave. I’m so used to people leaving, and believing their soft spoken lies saying they’ll always be by my side.
I believed yours, yet you’ve proven time again that you’re no better than them. Your mouth forms pretty lies that you’re able to hide behind.
You didn’t want to hurt me, what a fucking lie. If you didn’t want to hurt me, you wouldn’t. You wouldn’t. But you, did time after time.
Don’t leave, please. I know you said not to worry but I do, I do. Now I know it was for good reason, the words you said were never true.
For you left, you left, you left…
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.
trying to find a reason to live in empty bottles, that maybe after my fourth or fifth I’ll find hope at the bottom. I’m on my sixth but I don’t care to keep count anymore.
for I’ve found more hope in the bottom of empty wishing wells than I’ve managed to find in the deepest corners of my mind.
Im tired of tearing my mind apart in hopes of removing the memories you’ve left in me, for they’ve become ingrained in every part of me.
my skin crawls like when you were next to me. Something no shower can remove, no matter how many I take. It always feels like there’s a layer I cannot remove, one that can be temporarily hidden under the blood I’ve bled.
instead I pour alcohol down my throat, not that I want to drink.. but in hopes I’ll feel it cleanse me from the inside out
just for one night ..
The numbing of my knuckles as they come in contact over and over with the tiles wet from the shower I’m using to try to feel clean again.
Somehow I still feel their hands on me. Fingerprints left like stains, they feel like a birthmark I wish I was never born with but I was never born with it.
Instead I was branded.
They were not something you could wash away, skin deep. I’ve tried to dig them out, believe me
My body is my home and I never invited them in. They threw a welcome party, one that costed me the cleanliness of my own skin.