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high.

high,
high is like sitting
in the sun overlooking
the lake and the town
and the sound of church bells
drift and swirl 
and you can hear people,
ever so faintly,
living their lives and laughing,
and the sky is just 
so blue and perfect. 
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swipe

swipe left.
swipe left.
swipe left.
drink. 
swipe left.
swipe left. 
swipe left. 
i keep reaching out. 
but you won't even 
look at me,
much less take my hand.
im trying to talk
to people and
tonight i almost cried 
in a bar
because someone
invited us to a birthday party.
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3 nights.

went to a bar tonight
just trying to forget that you existed. 
had a couple drinks
for the third time this week. 
met some new people. 
it numbed the pain,
but i still hear you, 
echoing inside my head. 
"hey hot lips."
"hey beautiful"
"im falling in love with you."
and then
"it's just not going to work."
all i ever asked from you
was to not dance with me
if you didn't mean it. 
and you danced with me
round and round and round
couldn't you have just said no. 
just say no.
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trigger warning.

i don't think anyone knows,
how deep this ache goes. 
move on. 
get a new hobby.
do things you like.
my therapist asks me
how do you feel now
and talks about self worth.
like the dichotomy of self-loathing
and self-love is somehow the answer.
i've been lonely,
so. fucking. lonely.
for as long as i can remember.
its an ache that i will do
anything to ease.
my soul is lonely. 
my bones are lonely.
they say do a hobby,
like manifesting pain in a painting
will somehow fill the empty spaces.
like running will fill the void
in your bed that makes sleep
seem like it will never come.
you have to stop running sometime
and when that high wears off,
the dark will come for you.
it waits like ice and wind in the dead of winter
and it sinks into you in the kind of way
that makes you forget that you 
ever knew what warm was.
its the cold that makes you want to
drag razor blades across your skin
until you can write poetry in your blood
in the shower and watch as the red
turns pink and pink and swirls away.
its the kind of cold that makes your bones
ache and your skin burn,
and you hurt. 
you hurt so fucking much,
but you're so, so good at this
that no one even knows
how much you fantasize about blowing 
your brains out by the pond. 
how you keep pouring out love
again and again and again
and wondering how fucking defective you are
that no one stays. 
you can't bake it away.
you can't hike it away.
you can't write it away.
you can't run it away.
you can't paint it away.
you can't fuck it away.
you can't drink it away.
it lurks and waits, 
dark and heavy and empty,
and you have to exist with it