Writings by K.V.

there is freedom in admitting simply what you think you deserve.

the journey to self love is less of walking along a linear path and more of stumbling in circles, retracing your steps around and around a well worn infinity symbol.

it was that kind of night where 3 a.m. confessions meant pouring your heart out and drowning in it.

lately— it feels like just the ghosts of us speaking. and I don't know how to bring us back to life.

we danced around the truth so long that admitting it made us feel like strangers.

I would trade years off my life for just one more lazy half awake Sunday, lounging around with you.

you form your mouth around the word apology like it's a foreign concept to you. and it shouldn't be.

I told myself it was better this way and trapped the me that used to love you beneath layers and layers of self preservation.

the trouble with you and I is that when I needed absolutes, you liked to play coy with maybes.

waking from loving you was a long harsh winter of realizing what I deserve.

no one will gift you a life worth loving. you have to make it yourself.

In this life, you will hurt and cry and ache and grieve but nothing is forever and happiness will come again. that's the beauty in the consistency of change.

you lick your lips after you say my name like your eyes are hungry in the wake of an insufficient taste that leaves you waiting and wanting.

I hate that dream you has the power to shackle me to the insides of my eyelids with guilt and shame just like real you can. as if I'm not capable of kicking back.

you and I were like a mess of different blueprints that never made it past the beginning planning stage.

my body is cut from a cloth that society either seeks to wear like acceptance or burn. and most days, it feels like my skin isn't thick enough to withstand the things they want from me.

it's art. the way you wear your heart on your sleeve. as if it's a masterpiece screaming its loneliness to the world in a host of bleeding colour.