the silent self mutilation of climbing into fresh bedsheets dusted with the scent of you and gripping tight, realizing all my nights are spent sleeping with a ghost.
hundreds of red rose petals and all the reasons I’ll always love you, set ablaze and scattered like ashes lost in the wind.
My love for you is endless.
A labyrinth I work my way through,
with no desire for an exit.
It settles into my bones,
and I spend my days wandering,
exploring all the new and profound pieces of you.
Do you still think of me as you fall asleep?
Do you reach for me in the middle of the night
the way I still reach for you?
I’ve been inside my apartment for nearly five months now.
But I’ve never felt further away from home.
It’s down to the wire, a toothless thread of hope that I’ll still cling to. After all, what else do I have left to hold?
You never know if you’ll fall into a slumber full of happiness or hopelessness.
love, after all, is the most elaborate method of self harm.
“What’s it like,” she whispers into the shadows of night. “To love someone with your entire being and experience that type of love in return?”
Let alone my love
It seems I’ve already lit the house on fire, but forgot I was still standing inside.
I saw poetry in your eyes and, right then and there, I knew I was under your spell.
Writing is my escape. It’s the thing that jerks me out of my head for a while, distracts me from the noise, helps me channel my frustrations into words — helps me heal.
So why are words not coming easily to me lately, even when life feels so hard?
I should be happy for you, I know I should. But there’s a sharp ache in my chest – knowing you’ll never look at me the way you look at her.