melancholic poet I guess~

I have the red pencil, gifted by my lover, in my hand coffee on the bedside it's running out almost and I read letters letters, from a wrenched man to his lover whom he could never convey his love to neither did I

Your name is one of those pretty words that poets use in their verses

they say, "it's their loss not yours" and I think I agree when I am sober when I am doing just fine, I agree then I pass by a corner we used to sit in a closed down coffee shop that we used to visit I won't say I miss you, I don't think I do but all the memories come to me so vividly so vivid that something stirs up in me I wish I could describe it other than saying I miss you that would be lie but that's the closest to what I feel it's the memories all the memories, where I see the 'you'.

one of these days I will fold, even with a tiny drop of love they say those who weren't served love on a spoon will lick it off a knife and how true that feels I don't really have any words to describe to you how much I crave it I think I have infinity tears and screams stored up instead but if you ask me how much I want to be loved, I will not have any words it feels utterly pathetic to acknowledge but not really anywhere to run anyway and if I fail to pour it onto the blank page then where would I

I would love to love a man but I don't want to be his wife what if all the love from before evaporates and I end up being his maid I wouldn't mind a companionship, a partner to share a life but the tag of 'marriage' makes me think it's a legalized form of slave I wouldn't mind cooking, cleaning for the man that I claim to love but if those are made to be a chore, something I 'must' to prove my worth, make my existence useful, then I would rather live alone I would rather spend my life as the odd witch.

Oh how I love dead people's thoughts

I wanted to die but then there would probably be no meaning in it too maybe I wanted the scar on my hand as a sign so that you would look neither happened neither I died nor you looked I sat with three stitches on my left wrist, my anger, my agony making a toast. I wanted to die, but then there would be no meaning in it too.