I don’t drink much. I can remember the last time I was drunk,
and that was months ago. One, maybe two. Then I’m done.
Being drunk only amplifies whatever mood my heart is in.
But one or two, and that softens it. The gray sadness
becomes a little more dull, a little more bearable.
Tonight I’m drinking water and it occurs to me;
I want a drink.
Don’t lose yourself in the way he loves you. He kisses you because he can; it’s not because you align his stars or keep his blood warm.
When your eyes close in the familiar darkness of his room, don’t get caught up in the way it feels like home. It is a place to rest your head next to his, not an escape from your world. This isn’t a reprieve and he is not a safe haven.
Yours arms can wrap around him and as much as your heart wants to jump into him, it is still yours. It’s okay to love – it is always okay to love – but remember, please, that you are more than your love for him.
He can whisper into your hair until his lungs give out, but words are just letters and sounds and they are just as easily said as lies. Please, just be smart. Everything can be broken, from his words, to your heart.
The stars can glitter all they like, and feel free to toss them your wishes. Just don’t waste your wishes on him. If only one ever gets granted, know it’s okay to be selfish and let it be in your best interest.
I can’t get it out of my head; everything I’ve ever said or done like it’s one big ink stain on my reality. Like I’m the only reason why there are fall backs and hindrances.
I swear I’m not a huge fuck-up but I see everything pointing back to me and even while I know it’s false that’s the only thing that sounds right. My head can shake in refusal and nonacceptance but it still presses further and further into my being like once it makes its way through, that’s it. It’s written in stone. It’s truth.
Everyone tries to twist my words and my actions, they try to twist what kind of person I am to fit their lives. Of course then when I can’t find it in me to let anyone in, it’s my fault and somehow I’m still the one fucked up.
These bonds people place on my wrists to theirs feel brittle while they look like diamond to everyone else. One jerk in the other direction and we’re both let free, but somehow they don’t see that.
I’m not the bad guy. But I’m also not the hero.
I wish everyone would understand that I am not their hero.
I am not a hero.
There’s static between my ears that makes it hard to concentrate on anything. I can close my eyes as tight as I can, I can even silence everything around me. That static never seems to cease.
My lungs fill with smoke and I inhale the familiar taste. There’s a slight burn that I don’t remember and I think I do this for nostalgia.
My hands are used to pushing people away. They’re even used to using some. Can you be called manipulative even when you never advertise anything other than your own intentions?
Feelings have been used up and my heart’s tired, pushing people away just to get a little rest. It doesn’t know quite how to limit itself so it’s learned to adapt – limiting those who get close instead. It a trade that sometimes leaves a bad taste in my mouth.
The smoke only masks it for a little while.
I don’t pretend to be anything other than what I am. It’s not my fault if the picture you’ve tried to make me into isn’t a reality.
I’m sick of the blame placed on my shoulders, and I’m sick of the mess everyone seems to try to make. Concentration is difficult at best, I’m not going to waste my time on you.
Where did you even get the idea?
I haven’t been myself lately, kind of like trying to copy who I am from a blurry image. Parts of me feel like smoke and now I’m just waiting for a strong enough breeze to sweep me away.
There are parts of my head that I want to shut off, and there are parts of my heart I want to keep quiet. I can’t tell where this screaming is coming from but these tears keep threatening to spill from my eyes. It’s like there’s a tripped wire somewhere in me that has let something shift, when it shouldn’t.
It doesn’t feel like a cold friend. And this doesn’t have a sick comforting familiarity.
Something aches inside of me, something feels missing. I can’t put my finger on it but I feel the gray under my skin. Warm water doesn’t wash it away and neither does his hands.
I don’t know where I got lost but somehow I have no idea where I am. I’m lost even to myself.
I want to wake up and pretend this is all a dream. But it’s not, and there’s no warm bed I’ve forgotten to wake up in.
There’s a lonesome piece of myself still cold from your absence. I tell myself I’m okay now, I tell myself I’m fine.
Every cell I’m comprised of still feels the ache of missing and the ache of hurt; every cell still shivers with the memory of the cold.
My fingers can’t feel anything but you and everything else fees like water, or it feels like sand. My lips remember the imprint of yours and nothing else can sate them.
I can press myself further into him and close my eyes and repeat lies until they feel true but there’s a wide burden of you that’s still gaping and weeping. The stone in the center of my chest has no intention of budging or flexing and I can’t feel for anyone else what I could feel for you. I don’t know how to become pliable.
Your soul still lingers with mine and they dance in your memory.
I thought I was over you but it turns out the ghost of you left remnants in every crease I’ve ever been made out of.
There’s parts of something still holding on and I feel it cutting into the soft flesh and tearing me into pieces of myself.
Somehow I still miss you.
Somehow I can’t replace you in the heart of me that is made out of love.
Somehow I’m not letting myself let go of you.
Before you showed me what you were made out of, you were perfect for me. And I can’t seem to let that go.
I’ve stayed in different cities, different towns. There have been many places I’ve lived and nowhere has felt like home.
I made a reprieve out of his arms and called it my home and that’s the closest I’ve ever felt to belonging.
The closet darkness is the mot familiar thing that hangs around and even that leaves me at times and I’m still not sure if I’m thankful for that or not. At least if it stayed I’d have a final constant.
But it doesn’t stay. Nothing ever sticks and I’ve never been a good wanderer. My skin is too soft, my bones too stiff.
I’m good at giving up, but not at letting go. I guess I’ll call this not letting go of a place to call my own. Of not letting go of belonging.
I’ll rinse my eyes and I guess I won’t give up. It’s in my nature, though, so I always wonder when it’ll show up on my bedroom floor. Eventually the only thing I’ll have left in my hands is the idea of home that I’ve given up, but never forgotten.
Something about that sounds lonely.
I’m not scared of lonely anymore.