blacksmoke

This is what I remember: losing myself. You have to know one thing about me: I'm an observer. I notice things. So it didn't take me long to notice what you liked about me. Not long to understand that the traits and the things and the tidbits that made your heart beat faster had little to do with me and a lot with the idea you had of me in your head. The blond girl, the throws back her head shaking with laughter kind of girl, the girl who sits at home and waits for you to come back late at night, the girl who unlearns to enjoy herself when you're not around. I became her. I was her, for you, for as long I could. This is how it started: I donned a mask every time you came over. My features never slipped, a sweet smile permanently glued to my face, every line filled to the brim with adoration. You looked at me and I saw bright lights and I thought it was how it had to be. I thought this was how it was supposed to feel. A tightness in my chest, in my lungs. Feeling too small for my body, for you, for this world. It didn't matter that I tried to decode entire conversations when you left. That I thought everything I said and did was wrong, that I blamed me for your outbursts, for your deciding to drive home in the middle of the night, for your pretending I did not exist for weeks on end. And I felt like it. I felt like I did not exist. This is what I have to remind myself of: I rediscovered myself. I stuck my hands into piles of ash, debris and broken bone, and I dug so deep, I nearly got stuck on the way back up. I found her, I think. I found who she was before you, buried who she was with you, and treasure who she will become after you. Because there will be an after you, and it will be glorious. And you know me: I'm an observer. I notice things. And I remember them. And no matter how many times I encounter a part of me that misses you, the memory of losing myself will always be clearer, more fleshed out than the muscle memory of my fingers tracing the palm of your hand.

3 magical words

“She wanted a storm to match her rage.”

“before you die, experience the love of a writer, poet or painter.

“If I tell you I want you

You leave a piece of yourself in the every hand you hold