Burning Pages

father's day like

a stomach full of choked down words

this pain has never been beautiful. it has always just hurt.

hey! I'm sorry but I stumbled upon your confessions post and was wondering if you could maybe link the poem you said you cry to every time you read it? But I understand if you don't feel comfortable with it!! If you don't, then you can just delete this ask :) thank you for your time!

10 confessions i want to tell you but i'll tell strangers instead

i'm trying to work through it, but these memories are burned onto the back of my eyelids, so when i shut my eyes to rest, or even to blink, i'm reminded. i read horror books as bedtime stories, hoping my nightmares will be about humans meeting their demise from a group of homicidal aliens or a rabid lion and they won't be about you. i want to forget. i want this to be over. i just want to be able to fucking live.

i know how it feels to die, and it is not how us poets will tell you. it is not a peaceful passing, doesn’t feel like falling asleep. it is not eyes fluttering and simply fading away, not slow and painless. it is sweaty palms and a heart that is beating as fast a race horse, a clenched stomach that feels like it’s going to collapse into itself, and a pain that runs through your blood and settles deep into your bones. but most of all, worst of all, it doesn’t feel like a relief. what hurts more than everything else is that the only words your foggy brain can manage to put together are “i just want to take this back”

we both know we shouldn’t have left the way we did. we should have cut things off quick and clean, like a slash from a straight razor. we should have tended to the wounds right away, not left them bleeding. not reopen them time and time again. we should have let the end be the last time. so i promise, i won’t call you. i won’t talk to your mother, or ask your friends how you are. and maybe, when the wound has healed and the scar is fading, when we’ve both had time to become better, we’ll meet again. and maybe, this time, we won’t make each other bleed.

i once read the question “is it possible for your life to go by without your even knowing it?”. i don’t know if the asker was expecting a response, but if they are, here it is: yes. i threw away years of my life and didn’t notice. not until i grew up. not until it was far too late. please, notice where you are. notice who you’re with. notice what you’re doing. i have lost so much time in my life, but i can’t let you lose yours too. listen. please. it’s too late for me. it’s not too late for you.

i keep writing you letters. your name finds its way into my journal every night. i still do this for you. last week, you're the reason i put the bottle down. last night, you're the reason i didn't end it. half of my poems are about you, but i don't let them see the light of day. i'm terrified that you'll find them, that you'll know. even without your name on it. even without knowing i'm behind them. i'm terrified that you'll have forgotten my face when yours is at times the only thing that keeps me going. but if you do find these, and you do figure out it's me, then please know this: i miss you more than i have ever missed anything before.

i have not felt your warmth in months, and i don't know how much longer i can sleep in a bed where the left side is cold.

no matter what i try to write, you always find a way to sneak in. your name ends up hidden between the lines. my pen dots the i's the way you do. i write with the tone you speak. i just want a poem that helps me forget your face, not have it staring up at me from the page.