Friday, November 15, 2013

dear you,

I’m not making this up, or trying to be romantic, or poetic. Whenever we fight, or to put it more accurately, whenever I fight with you, my heart tightens up and my lungs feel like they’re about to dissolve into foam. It sounds poetic and beautiful, but it really does happen. Maybe that’s what being broken hearted feels like. I don’t know.

But I do know that I’m a monster in arguments and I can be a bitch sometimes. I know that I can turn extremely hard and cold but if you only touched me with your fingertips I would collapse into a shameful, pathetic sobbing mess that would sometimes last for hours. I would cry so much I wouldn’t be able to breathe and start to hyperventilate. But you know that already; you’ve seen it all before.

Nabokov wrote, “Was she really beautiful? Was she at least what they call attractive? She was exasperation, she was torture.” And I am. I am exasperation and I am torture and I don’t know why you love me. And you do make me happy. Just because I get sad sometimes doesn’t mean that you’ve failed in making me happy; in fact, I’m a lot happier than I was before I met you. So stop beating yourself up whenever I get sad.

You’ve made me happier than I ever was, or ever will be. And I love you.  

It's been too long since I feel suicidal again. I've forgotten how bleak everything gets.

Thursday, November 7, 2013

my darling,

if i could hold you in my bones,
i would.
if i could suck on you like marrow,
lodged deep in the hollows of my fragile bones,
i would.

but you are in my veins.
you were not born to be tucked into tiny crevasses;
hidden between the walls of osseous tissues.
you course through my body in rhythmic ferocity
that’s almost savage.
you are the blood that pulsates in me.
you are in my veins,
and you fuck.  
and that’s what’s keeping me alive.