I am breathing, so I guess I should be happy, but there are so many nostrils in this world. And they are taking up all my air.
You’ve been on so many of my nerves. It’s a shame.
I bent your legs in ways that would be beneficial for anyone who had a physical disability. I opened your mouth for anyone who was too def to hear what you were talking about.
I tried, many years ago, to forget about what you looked like. But I have been to one too many museums lately, so I apologize to the painters whose work I have mistaken for a photo I once took of you.
My writing is a coping mechanism. It gives me time away from having to deal with what is really going. As soon as the words hit the paper, they are dead. So I never have to deal with life. If I die soon enough, I’ll have lived an entire life asleep. I ask your prayers in this journey.
When I told you I missed you, I was really missing me. The part of me that you took with you and have yet to return.
First of all, great fucking job. Your shit is deep. Second, is it love or emptiness that motivates you?
thank you. how does the phrase “empty love” work for you?
I’m not writing about you— I’m just constructing warning signs for the boyfriends to come.
All you had to do was understand me inside and out, but, instead, you left my insides out…when you stepped away from it all.