i’m breaking my own heart.

i’m tearing up flesh until my hands are raw,

i’m watching the metaphorical blood seep deep into my mind.

i try to wash stains off my clothes

but the memories will never fade.

i think that’s what scares me the most.

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static.

you drown my thoughts,

turning and crumbling

over the crackles and your fuzz.

 

you,

muffle memories i once held so dear;

i fear the memories unfolding

will have the same fate.

 

once,

a time i do not recall now,

you neatly sat in the words i heard

and in the corner of my ear.

 

now,

your black and white polka dots

have conquered my black and white mind

with your black and white noise.

the,

words you mutter under your breathe

are just words,

they no longer carry meaning.

 

and,

thoughts are repeated,

never changing;

 

static.

expectations.

I expected harsh lips,

And hands that created fists

Marks of proof,

Indents on the skin.

 

I expected dimly lit alleyways

At 3 am,

In a hoody,

Too dark to distinguish.

 

I expected your hands to be rough,

And your heart laced with ice,

Unwelcoming and metallic;

Rusting around the edges.

 

But you were none of that.

 

We sat outside,

Looking at the stars

Wondering who could be staring back.

You lips grazed mine

But my eyes stayed glued to the sky.

 

I invited you into my room;

Into my thoughts,

Into my life

But an invitation to my home

Doesn’t equate to an invitation into my body.

 

Your hands were not rough.

Nor was your heart cold;

In fact, it danced with the stars

And roared with the lightening outside.

 

And so,

What i thought of you,

What i expected of you,

Was to understand;

Or grasp the wild concept of just sleeping,

Or maybe even dance on the shore.

But i didn’t want to swim,

For the water was cold and choppy

And the sun wasn’t shining,

And dipping heads below the surface

Sometimes makes it hard to breathe.

memory.

Memories are strange things; one ticket for the private screening of my life. That is, what i can remember of it. The funny thing is i will remember the best and the worst but the mundane things, the things that make up the bits in between, i won’t. I won’t remember having spaghetti on the 23rd of august, or the face of that boy i once kissed; their lips along with their name become a blur, just as that night has. It’s strange how a faded memory in my eyes is the most remembered night from another’s. It’s strange how i can think back to some nights, almost as if i am there once more. It’s strange how now, today, may not even become a memory to be forgotten; too mundane to maintain in the jumble of memories that remain inside this head of mine. It is strange. 

“Do people take advantage of you?”

I imagine you thinking of that night of us when those words spill from your lips, i imagine it because i know you regret what we did and, so do i. I imagine it because it means that you worry that others do the same as you once did. I imagine it because it acts an apology, not that one is needed but i like to imagine you still care about me. It’s just nice to know that you’re not a complete ass. In hindsight you did take advantage of me; i know that now.  And i know that i thought i was head over heals for you, and if we just fucked on your bedroom floor maybe i’d become a permanent resident; maybe even upgrade to the bed. But i also know how bad you feel for taking the one thing i wanted to keep before passing it over as if some token into my life. i can’t help but wonder how differently things could’ve played out. but know, i don’t want you, i used to and i think that still taints my lips.

lust.

Lust is a women dressed in red

Lust is a bed with no more than sheets

Lust is the notion that love is not real

Or it is

But it does not last

And we’ve both had our fair share of shattered glass

While picking up the pieces we confuse glass with chocolate

And we’re soon surrounded by pools of crimson

We start to bandage over old wounds

And we see people walking around with not even a single bruise

We wonder how it is possible

Then we realise; feelings are left on the shore while bodies ride the waves

 

Lust is not love,

But it does not end in the carving of caves in our hearts

As love so often used to.

dreaming.

My eyes are blinded by the future

But i’m always two steps behind

So eyes will stay glazed until i’m six feet deep;

When i have soil for eyes

And worms for a brain.

I need fog lights;

To shine onto the road ahead

But it’s not time for a spring clean

When it’s winter and the mist is still thick.

So for now,

I live in this dream

Until the thought of winter can ride by

And it becomes spring once more,

Or until soil and worms join my side

Painting a picture of spring before my eyes.