I know it’s tempting and I know its exciting. I know it gives you goosebumps and I know it also makes you feel alive. But you can’t keep playing with fire and expect not to get burnt, every single time. You can’t keep cutting yourself and expect not to see blood, every single time and you can’t rip your heart out of it’s prison cell and toss it to the wind, hoping someone would bring it back. You’re not invincible. You’re not fire proof. You can’t keep doing this over and over again. At some point, you’re going to have to choose yourself.
Like a pendulum
I watched my sanity swing back and forth
Hitting the four corners of these hypnotic white walls.
With each thud and each bang,
I heard it echo through the crevices and dark alleys of my mind
Passing whispers and taunts
Egging me to take one step closer to the dark.
I felt the last strings that held bits of me together,
break off and snap, as easily as I pictured my own neck would
on the nights when I saw my 10-year-old self
holding a doll in the corner, humming a tune I was no longer familiar with.
I wish I could hold on and stay for a little while longer
I wish cradling the past didn’t become a habit
I wish you were there for me.
Falling in love with you was like skinny dipping in winter
Falling in love with you was like
standing in the pouring rain
holding the key high enough
hoping to feel some sort of spark
some sort of electricity.
It was reckless
It was a suicide attempt.
Falling in love with you
was the only thing I felt good at.
– excerpts from a book I’ll never write.
I often wondered why I couldn’t write about you.
I often day dreamed about your warm breath against my neck,
or the sound of my name (or versions of it) rolling off your tongue,
But I could never quite figure out why I couldn’t write about you.
I couldn’t turn you in to metaphors and exaggeration.
I couldn’t even rhyme your name.
Heck, I couldn’t even figure out the rhythm of your beating heart!
You’d think that after six months I’d have figured it out,
But here I am, still wondering.
Maybe, just maybe;
You are worth more than a clever metaphor and rhyme.
Maybe, just maybe;
You mean more to me than just a poem.
Maybe, just maybe;
I can’t turn you in to poetry, because you’re not a figment of my over active imagination.
Maybe, just maybe,
I could write about them in a million ways
if only there were enough words in my vocabulary.
I could romanticize the two perfect pieces of you
until everyone fell in love with them
And of course, by then I'll be raging with the thought of losing you
to everyone who fell in love with them.
I've fantasized waking up in the morning
and watching the sun rise from the pillow next to me
Watching them turn to a hazy, groggy brown as they flutter open
Watching them turn vibrant and light just after brunch
Watching them turn warm and deep in the twilight
Watching them turn electric and hazel
as you start kissing me,
while your hands race up my legs
That are already clutched around your hips.
Watching them turn hazy and groggy again
as they slowly begin to close
It is at this moment, that I know for sure.
Once again, I wait for morning
longing to see the sun rise
as they flutter open
and he smiles back at me.
And with all the great days in between, there are some not so great ones.
Days where you’re just breaking bit by bit inside
and you really can’t push the tears back
Of course, as always, you blame the alcohol.
Because technically, when you’re sober;
days have never been better!
But the moment the wine starts replacing
the blood from your veins
and the glee is replaced by pity and loneliness,
you start crumbling.
You slowly but surely start feeling more numb
More detached from the rest of the world.
And then you start convincing yourself
over and over
and over again
That you’re doing okay,
And that’s enough.
She tried to leave you with all her scars etched to your skin
but all she could manage was the wine stain on the glass;
She tried to cut pieces of her heart
and leave them around for you,
hoping against all odds that you’ll follow the trail
that would lead you straight back to her;
But all she could do was draw lines with crooked edges
on the paper where she wrote your name a million times.
And by the end of the flower stems and letters she never sent,
She almost always swore upon
all the stars in that brightly lit sky
That you were something real.