If I bleed then that’s alright, I’ve learned to live with the messes I make

I’m not asking for help, I’ve outgrown her

she can keep all the memories, they don’t serve a purpose

I know it’s bound to get better, I know it’s bound to get better. I hear repetition can feel a lot like the truth.

See, it’s different. It’s not about happiness, it’s about being so god damn tired of carrying around the baggage.

I’m sick of cutting my hair to forget they decided to cut me out of their lives.

my body has paid the price far too many times, it’s tired.

all my wrongs sit in the sink begging me to gain the strength to wash them away

all the things I lost found their way back and keep me from closing my eyes

double check the locks and make stories from the patterns in my skin

I said a prayer for every strand of hair I found on my bathroom floor

all the things I lost found their way back

There’s an invisible line and it sits between my bed and the door frame. All I have is time and it is my biggest enemy the way it tries to seduce me to cross it. Understand that the world is not terrifying, this anxiety wasn’t born out of bad weather or a collapsed building. The house i grew up in was sturdy even if it was built out of glass bottles and aluminum cans. I try not to think about the hands that hold my baby sister are the same pair that made me flinch. He’s not the big bad wolf anymore, in fact, I just ordered him a birthday cake and sometimes he’ll bring me a coffee with cinnamon and hazelnut. Sometimes my dad is that fine line, a reminder people can change and this fear I have of trusting people needs to be outgrown. But sometimes I remember my birthday party when he promised to be sober and my mom was in tears. And sometimes my anxiety won’t let me forget about the time he left for three months and I wore his clothes for months.

I know the word “routine” is scary like god forbid you have to do the same thing everyday

It used to sound devastatingly boring.

however, this love is routine.

the way I hold your hand in the car, in the store, anywhere we go

the way your fingers trace my skin

the way i wake up everyday next to you

how could I ever get tired of this?

Can he feel it?

When i kiss him does he feel all the anxiety pulsating in my blood and can he feel the blush forming across my cheeks?

body and mind all exist for him and I’ll lay in his darkest secrets to keep him safe

I’ll let his cologne linger til the grave

I know where his fears sit idly in his head, he knows where the scars are

somehow all the pieces fit despite losing a few out of anger and sadness

somehow he doesn’t think of me as broken

when did love start making sense?

when did i make amends for my sins?

If this body is a temple, I will make it collapse

This has never been a home and it was designed to die

This cycle is maddening and when do i escape

Could I make this body crumble as easily as a rice cake?

Could I give it away? I’ll put up a listing, I won’t put up a fight.

I’ll take the lowest bid, lowest number.

I’ll cut off the parts I don’t like and shove them in my closest

This cycle is maddening and I’m exhausted

the four walls in my room have been talking to me more than anyone else

the reflection of my bedroom lights make shapes on my blinds

I count my shoes like sheep

if i choose to drink, my bed is a boat

the books i never read but are scattered across my floor are a constant reminder there’s a world out there i’m missing out on

i didn’t mean to let it get this bad. parts of me are better and by now everyone’s tired of hearing me out

for once, i’m not a danger to myself but my anxiety doesn’t know the difference between a knife and a crosswalk

the other day a customer asked me a harmless question and my heart pounded so hard i became nauseous

what am i suppose to say? im okay, for once, the problem isn’t me, it’s you.

you’re standing too close and everyone can see right through me.

can I let you in on a secret? I laid in his bed and I thought of another.

Letting him go was a hit of fresh air.

I laid in his bed and brought our lips together in a sloppy attempt to not look at him

I looked at all my failed romances and took it upon myself to write screenplay

but love is not a car

You cannot go to a junkyard and expect to walk out with the qualities he is lacking

You cannot take a boy and make him a puppet for your bad adaptation of Shakespeare

The pieces never fit and he never laughed at my jokes

I didn’t feel a thing when he touched me and the drive home always felt like an eternity

I keep trying to spit out love poems like I used to. Back when all my love poems sounded like regurgitated cliche movies.

I don’t see the sunset in boys eyes anymore.

The older I get, the more complicated love gets.

Like, I’m suppose to love them but not more than myself; however I don’t know how to measure my love yet.

You’re never suppose to lose who you are but being with someone who introduces you to change is a good thing.

The rules seem ironic, i can’t wrap my head around it.

love is about more than feelings yet I always need to be validated.

I guess I’m just no good at it.

I’m trying to remember what the physical aspect of us felt like

I’m trying to remember where I saw you for the very first time, was it a church or an insurance company behind you?

Was it whiplash or traffic?

I’m trying to place us, did I imagine it?

was there really magic or did my mind exaggerate?

It wouldn’t be the first. Won’t be the last.

I can’t remember the details.

Ain’t that bullshit? I let you tear me apart and I don’t even know why.

My head tells me I loved you but what did I love? The memories are jaded, your touch isn’t a shadow anymore, there’s no ghost. I did the impossible, I forgot you.