you reached out to me, maybe because you know i will always answer, but i know the truth, that if you wanted me, then you would have me. it's not rocket science, it's just facts.
sometimes, i think that the lonely will just swallow me up. it sneaks up on you, in the dark, a ghost that comes to haunt you right when you think you've figured out how to be alone with yourself.
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.
the problem is that i love so easily, and boldy and loudly, and i never learned how to do it quietly. i love you so much that i am drowning you and i cant stop to let you up for air.
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.
stop trying to find answers, stop reaching out, just stop. he doesn't want you. doesn't. want. you.
i keep trying to tomorrow away bad habits, but sometimes tomorrow comes today.
its raining, but its not washing away any of this hurt. ive been 2,000 miles trying to outrun it. trying to outdrink it. you just have to feel it. exist with it.
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.
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