Me too.

The ending happens suddenly

Awakened from the blackout

He leaves and you are left—

Wondering, blaming, maybe even waiting

And him?

Still drunk off the night’s conquest

High fived from his boys for tapping that mess

Surrounded by crowds

While you’re left all alone

Looks of pity or a solid scold

He won.

It’s done.

There’s no use in speaking.

He will move on.

There will be another beginning.

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Catch Up

My love for you will still remain,

Even though it causes so much pain.

It doesn’t die as easily,

Despite how badly we try to kill it.

Putting poison in my viens,

I want you out of my head.

The hardest thing is–

Blackouts were something we shared.

So falling into that despair

Is stained with you.

How do I get away?

Such a fucking shame…

You hurt when you see me?

I hurt. Always.

It’s not a new feeling for me.

This has been manifesting.

Since I first laid eyes on you–

Confusion and contemplation.

You can be mad. Be fucking mad.

I’ve been mad,

So it’s about fucking time you caught up.

Unedited

I have a difficult time editing anything I write. It’s probably why I’ll never become a popular writer. My words are always meant for me and only me to fully understand. It’s because when I read them, my mind captures the moments I’m trying to create. I already have everything outlined and detailed in my head so that I don’t necessarily have to do it as I write everything down in front of me.

When words and stories are edited, they become generalized. They become conformed to be accepted and understood by the public. I guess I’ve always been kind of a rebel. You can look at my collection of felonies and misdemeanors. I don’t follow the trends all too well. When someone tells me what to do and how to do it and I’ll achieve great things by following these steps, I’ll take like 10 steps back. Then I’ll do some twists and turns until I wind up in a completely different place and a loss of memory as to what I was trying to accomplish in the first place.

I’ve been trying to write a book. Well, 3 actually. I’ve been trying to write a book for years now and only recently have I seen any kind of chance for one to be completed. It makes me nervous. Like, what am I going to do to stray off course this time?

It’s already proving to be difficult. Going back to a story that reminds you of all the things you have left behind…That is what writers do. They relive all of their moment. Again and again and again. With those moments comes all of those feelings–the anxiety and pain and love and desire. I’ve already managed to get it down on paper once, editing only makes it that much more difficult. I don’t want to feel it all over again.

Change of heart

I can’t even write about you. That’s when you know it’s bad. When the story I’ve been working on for years, suddenly seems like trash because it’s written about you.

You and your inconsiderate heart, me and my vulnerable soul.

That’s what this story seems to be about.

But, I can’t keep playing the victim. I chose to be broken by you. I searched for someone like you, to release all of the demons I had hiding so deeply within me.

So, I feel like this story may have changed its purpose in my life. No longer am I romanticizing you and our crazy, reckless, inconsistent love. It is a story of a girl and boy who broke each other and could never be the same again.

Maybe I am the Season…

I think the problem with me is that I tend to get bored easily. Everything at the beginning is new and exciting, but then it becomes repetitive and tedious.

It’s like how at school, I couldn’t get through classes by the end. I just couldn’t even look at a textbook without feeling completely emptied of any passion I may have had when I first purchased it.

What’s wrong with me? Is this a normal, healthy state of being? Or is it something I must learn to rid of?

I like following my impulses, reaching for one bad habit after the next. I enjoy the thrill of substances and material purchases and a bout full of sugary foods. I like to hit cigarette after cigarette and type out story after story.

I live to avoid, to avoid being still or to avoid reality.

I guess that’s why when I’m with someone, I can’t stand it. They put me in this consistent, tedious reality that I’m unable to escape without hurting them. When I’m alone, I can make decision after decision without it affecting much other people. When I was with someone, my decisions had consequences for them.

I don’t know how to be still. I don’t know if I want to be.

My mind flows from one project to the next, one idea to the next, one love to the next. It’s what helps me experience life and everything to the fullest. Is that so wrong?

Please don’t be a season

Please don’t be a season.

Don’t be a fallen leaf in Autumn that slowly dies as it hits the pavement.

Don’t be the touch of snow on skin that quickly melts away in Winter.

Don’t be the rainbow after rain, hiding behind clouds of grey in Spring.

Don’t be warm beach days, fresh green grass and bright sunny rays that pass by as quickly as time does in the Summer.

You’re not allowed to come in and out of my life like the weather.

I want you for years to come.

I want you like the comfort of sitting down after every long day, knowing it’s a luxury whether on the floor or a coushioned chair.

I want you like the tattoo on the bottom of my neck, wearing out from too much sun exposure, but always holding meaning within my skin.

I want you like the memories written in books passed down for generations– causing stories to be diluted, but still partaking in history.

I want you like all of my body, maybe growing weaker as I get older, but always remaining, always trying, still working after so much vulnerability.

You are not just a season to me, you are a year. A year full of life, memories, sunshine, rainy days, snow fall and golden brown leaves on the ground.

Please don’t just be another season.

Freedom

I feel free. I saw you today and I almost smiled. I haven’t talked to you in a few days and I’m happy. I didn’t think I’d feel this way, but I do. I’m going to embrace it, because I deserve to be happy. Even if I did make you sad. I can only be in control of my own emotions, not yours. As much as I’d like to make you happy– that’s all I’ve been trying to do since we’ve been friends. I’ve put your emotions in front of mine for too long. It’s what I did for him too. The both of you were my number ones and I was always number two, just like I was for you.

I’ve cared so much and you’ve cared so little, wrapped up in your own life and drama of your love. You forgot I was there, in the sidelines cheering you on. Always there when you were down, when you didn’t want him, when you didn’t have him to hold. I was there. For the both of you. Open ears, open mind, open arms, but I left my heart closed. Because if it remained opened, I would’ve gotten burned, which is exactly what happened. I finally opened it. I finally opened my heart and my mouth to speak and you quickly shut it down. You can feel, but I can’t. You can love, but I can’t. You can fight, but I can’t. You can stir up drama and hate and confusion, but I can’t. I must remain silent around you and it hurts. It’s my own fault though. I shouldn’t fall into those bad habits. I shouldn’t let people walk all over me, talk to me without listening to me, judge me without hearing me out, fight with me without considering my side. When that’s all I do. All I do is wonder about you. How you’re doing. How he’s doing. How you’re both fucking doing and it hurts. Maybe I ended this the wrong way, but at least I ended it. I can say more than you can.