It’s not that I’m impossible to love, it’s just easier not to

I mean my mind can sometimes be a black oasis

too much of nothingness not a lot of self love

on the bad days my voice can feel a lot like broken glass

this body, nothing but a fault line

asking me to just keep breathing will feel like a chore

Watching me self destruct will feel like watching a bad movie

my apologies get old really fast

but I am really sorry

Isn’t it funny?

You were the best part of me even after you left

If someone asked how I was doing they might as well have asked where you were

I am still grieving the loss of us

I wear your name as a reminder to everyone that I am capable of love

You’re just not capable of loving me back

& everyone says I don’t need you

self love is better than any man’s love

but I was raised on stories where the damsel was rescued

I was told I’d find someone eventually and now they wanna bite their tongues and pin this destruction on me and only me.

I’m not sure when the universe decided to feed me to the wolves

Sometimes it feels like the wolves are everywhere, even in my fruity pebbles, or on top of my dresser

 

I wanna say it’s a daily battle, war. But sometimes, some days i can laugh and I can watch Netflix all day; I can’t make it out the front door but I can exist in my own world. I’m not sure what to call that. It is still lonely. I’d still rather be dead. However, there are no tears, bad memories, meltdowns, insults, drugs, or wolves to say the least.

I wish I could write like I used to.

I wish I could write like I used to.

I wish I could write like I used to.

I wish I could write like I used to.

I’m so sick of comparing brown eyes to drugs.

I’m so sick of transparent poems about a boy who has already forgotten my laugh.

I’m only latching on to the pain to try and create something, any thing, any stanza.

I suppose that’s the problem. It’s not all about pain. It’s not all about lust. It’s not always tragedy.

Maybe it’s about the silence between the world and my bedroom door. Or how beautiful the sunset looks from my window.

I suppose I should try to write about the way summers in LA are always the same, yet every summer I have this dream that I can capture the world just by existing.

Hold tightly to your youth

For if your youth is buried

Life is a caterpillar that never made it out of its cocoon

Hold tightly to your youth

For when your youth is ashes

Life is a dried up oasis with an overbearing amount of nothingness

apologies are so difficult.

take my dad for instance, he’s been sober for almost a two years now.

He was an alcoholic basically my entire life. In AA and therapy they told him that apologies are optional. The person they left behind, the addict, is not who they are anymore and they don’t have to carry the baggage of all the hurt they caused. But I do. Sometimes you just want to hear, “hey, I’m so sorry I was too drunk to be a father when you needed one.”

sometimes you don’t want to give them another chance, after all you gave them a second, third, fourth, fifth, etc..but you’re suppose to. Cause you love them regardless of all the sleepless nights, broken bottles, and flying fists. Cause they don’t have to apologize but you’re suppose to forgive them.

some nights you just want him to say “hey, I’m sorry your childhood wasn’t Santa clause and Peter Pan but watching me destroy everything I touched.”

Instead we all have to apologize to him, I’m sorry you have a harder time at family functions & holidays. I’m sorry ads can be triggering, I’m sorry you still haven’t earned all my trust.

Isn’t that funny, I’m still the one saying sorry.

tonight I am three beers, one tequila bottle, and a cup of lean away from my own head

tonight the boy does not exist

It is not about how drunk I am

it is about how much I’m willing to let go

Every shot I take is more like “I missed graduation but I won’t let this sadness take anything else”

This burning sensation is a reminder I am alive, for the first time I am alive

So I wrap myself around boy, a boy who looks nothing my ex lover, tonight I do not look for the brown eyed boy

I am the loud drunk girl

I am not sorry

i am the drunk girl crying at the party

I am not sorry

this is not a cry for help

I am not numbing this body

I am not turning into my father

For the very first time I am letting the world see me, even the bad parts, the parts I refuse to let anyone sober see.

Tomorrow I will go back to the shell of a person I am, hiding in the caves of anxiety, but tonight I am the drunk girl.