When you dip her in the middle of the dance floor, it is the color of her dress. When she whispers in your ear, it is the color of her lips. When you make love, it is the trace you want her to leave all over your body. When she places her palm over your heart, it is the color that comes to the surface as her fingertips trail like a sentence that can never be finished. When you see her in your bedroom with another, it is the color of your breath. When you smash the vase in the hall, it is the color that threatens you to abandon the shattered pieces. When you scream at the top of your lungs, it is the color that pierces the atmosphere. When she hears you, it is the color of her pulse. When you look in her eyes for the last time, it is the fading color of your heart falling to your knees. It is not the color you see when she leaves.

-

Here’s a free write because it’s been a fucking while

I was reading through past posts, and goddamn. Observations:

- Therapy could’ve changed the trajectory of my life a long, long, long, long fucking time ago. But c’est la vie, and here I am now, healed and healing, and that’s all that matters.

- My life, for as long as I can remember, has essentially revolved around some male. And while it wasn’t always necessary always revolving, there was still one in some back corner pulling my strings, affecting my mind, swaying my decisions and emotions.

my own words no longer provide guidance

my own thoughts find no direction with pen to paper

i think i might stop journaling

i feel unrecognizable to myself

i dont know who i am or what i stand for

im an empty shell

ive gone through the tide just to make it out alive but also dead inside