I fucking hate it. It doesn’t stop. It’s never positive thoughts or even just simple ones, like did I remember to put my clothes in the dryer? Did I feed my hermit crab? It’s my entire past creeping up on me at night. Well all day, but at least I can sometimes distract myself during the day. And I also have you during the day. But when I’m all alone in my room I don’t have anyone but myself and that is like being stuck in a room with a person you hate. I just want to be able to start having these thoughts and roll over in my bed and tell you about them because you’ll be right there. There won’t be anymore “it’s getting late I have to go”s. Only “It’s getting late, let’s go to bed”s.
I hide behind these books I read, while scribbling my poetry,
like art could save a wretch like me
One time you told me you loved girls who always smiled so I stitched my lips into a grin and as I sat there bleeding on the kitchen floor I wrote with red ink on dirty tile a list of the Reasons Why Things Happen in hopes that you’d come back and take it back and take me back and clean up all the broken glass.
Why why why I’m so sad is because instead of filling myself up I fill you up and it leaves me dry and angry and cracked on your kitchen floor with maraschino cherry juice running sticky down my fingers and there’s not enough ink in the world to say what I need to say."