"in a cramped apartment in a far-off land lived a young painter who was in love with a boy he’d never met.."

i give myself headaches at night, lying awake and wondering the last time you thought about me.
wondering if the only place you’ll be near me again is in my head leaves pillowcases salty cold and wet for the next time i need to hide from the world.
or hide the world from me.
maybe a bit of both.
and without you my favorite part of myself has turned away and died inside me. there was one last match to strike in the darkness but you blue it out.
i’d write a whole page about you if i could find an even match of words for perfection.
fell down the stairs saturday morning. got ahead of myself again and at least the downward slip was a realization of the fact. reminded me of the downward spiral in my head. thought i broke my neck, at least it wouldve been something that could be fixed. find myself taking care of the smallest wounds, putting bandaids over paper cuts. trying to prove that i can heal something.. fixing the outside to heal the inside.
took boston by storm. came out ahead and behind if that makes sense.
it’s the kind of city i could fall in love with.
bass lines replace heartbeats. knowing that those words are something that would never give up on you like you have yourself. what a comfort is to not be depending on organs and veins but instead having someone else hold them together for you.
and inside i’ll probably never heal, but even the outer contusions will be constantly bleeding in my head.
the savored scars will be covered with a new layer of white skin (almost transluscent like 1% milk.)
but they’ll be written out on the inside of my eyelids forever, they’ll still be sore when you tie our friendship bracelet around my wrist.
you ask me why i do it. why i did it. i lie and say its for the pain.
but really it’s just for the scars. i’m addicted to them.
they’re something i know will never go away completely, like a twisted pneumonic device to keep my head against the pillow at night.
it’s not that you’re hurting me, it’s that it hurts more to never be around you. (“it’s not that I’d die for you it’s that I already have..”)
i don’t want you to think i’m hurting myself simply because that would only make things worse.
i don’t hate everything. it’s just maybe i wasn’t meant to fit together with the rest of the world.
its just not a good fit for either of us.
suicide is the most grounding thing around. how friends give up on themselves after so many failed attempts to have the world believe in them. i can almost hear the sound of sweet misery, it came to me in the most complicated of melodies.
these feelings approach me like waves and it’s not that you haven’t thrown out enough lifevests or called for enough rescue teams, it’s that i don’t care enough to swim past it all. i cant help but to feel so hopeless for you.
they say this is the mildest winter on record, but to me it feels like the coldest, most desperate season in a while. but for now i’ll just try to hold onto anything held down.
start each sentence with and because i feel like at least i noted that something is missing.
write in fragments cause these thoughts can never be complete.
and if its neither of those it’s a blatant lie.
to both myself and you.
at least i’m being honest.
recovery (you make me live)
i love him for being so dauntless, so unstoppable, but i feel a sense of impending doom hanging over us.
i feel as if everything is about to change.
a storm was about to break in the desert air, having been coalescing for days.
nevada needed the rain with the tension mounting, almost palpable, creating chaos in its wake.
perhaps the storm was the catalyst for what was to come.
perhaps the ensuing flood was inevitable..

"are you always like this?" "i'm always like this."

bravery isnt the absence of fear, its jumping off the end of the earth knowing damned well that all youre gonna get in return is a long fall that leaves you with the rest of your damnable life to remember all the harm you almost caused, all of the doctors waiting with needles and thread poised to sew up the hearts and the lives they saw you set your sights on (if youre lucky, a stray comet will get you sooner rather than later). its fearing the fall and dreading death and taking the leap with a running start regardless. i think that braverys mostly foolishness, which ive got in abundance, and maybe a little selflessness, which i havent got at all. i think that the heroes that time will remember are the ones that acted too impulsively, who jumped without looking down, and managed to stumble into some great and noble deed completely by mistake. mistakes i have in abundance, too. i would say that my only brave act is having the guts to wake up every morning and continue spreading my own brand of disease across the planet. ill spare you the fodder of continuing with that particular train of thought. it hurt. it hurt that you did it, and it may be a fact that i lay down my truths for you like lovers, but i cant tell you how deeply that pain struck me. its not that i dont have the ability to verbalize it, because im pretty sure that i could tie both of us up with a slew of words that come out poetic on their own accord if i really wanted to lend you my opinions on the matter, but i won’t. i won’t because, despite how often i seem to flay myself like desperately begging forgiveness from God, there are some hurts id rather not inflict upon myself. there are some things im much more content with when theyre folded up neatly and shoved into the back of my mind, steadily collecting dust and contracting diseases thatll make their way to my bloodstream later, than when i have to feel them splintering my ribs just a little bit more with every breath i take. so it didn’t happen. it didn’t happen. dont you ever think that i dont trust you with my words. remember that – that you alone get to command them and twist them into whatever design you see fit – and remember that this exchange isn’t one-sided in the slightest. remember that i need to drink the ink off of every page that you give to me, or every malcontent thought and infected emotion simmering to the proper consistency inside of me would be the only thing i had to fill my stomach and wet my eyes and dampen my tongue for the talking. remember that i trust you more than i trust myself, because i constantly expend more energy coveting my own successes than i do realizing my failures as they fade to sickened yellow bruises, and i cant be trusted with anything.
i hate the feeling of forming new habits.

i wish i could hide in the dark more often,
as dreary as that sounds it’s comforting.

theres a loud voice inside my head and ill listen
because hey whos telling me not to?

i read palahniuk and levithan only because sometimes believing in all that beautiful crap makes you forget about the ugly stuff and gives you a little hope for the world

call me up sunshine i need to hear that smile