get better however

forget my heart, my head can’t take it

everyone’s mothers become: bad dreams, fearsome ghosts, corner-of-your-eye reflections, a mirage, dissipating a crude drawing a memory; one day you’ll look up at her and she won’t be able to touch you anymore. until then, remember: you’ve left her bruised, too.

I am speaking, as I always am, of forgiveness. Of amendment. Of whispering your name and breaking the dam.

I have more love for you than I have anything else: bones in my body and thoughts in my head, and every single one of them for you, too all that I am is for you.

Whatever you want you will take and I will give. Whatever you take I will excuse and pretend is not lost. Whatever I lose will become, somehow, all I am and all I have left.

anger can cleanse you be pure white hot fire/holy flame you, knees bent at the alter of an idea drinking the blood of ghosts

it’s easier to hope you know than tell you all these lies. I hope my thoughts don’t wake you up; I hope you sleep at night. these words don’t equal bitterness, they equal being fine, but I don’t know if I can say this right. you gave me so much time. I kissed you more than once or twice and my heart beat so loud, so loud I thought that God would hear it, and I thought he might be proud. not once did my hands ever shake. not once did I back out. but my heart set to trembling and my breath wouldn’t come out. I swore I’d love you quieter but I swore it to myself. you should’ve heard me, should’ve seen me, I’ve never been that much a mess. maybe my chest won’t burst this time. maybe my heart swells slowly. it’s leading me some long lost place - i don’t know where it’s going. I might’ve thought it tens of times but I never really loved, and you might know what I say out loud but not what I’m thinking of. so tell me if it’s dead or gone, and I’ll take away this hope. tell me where I’m going, tell me wherever to go.

anger issues

my body is wasting away on not enough borrowed time, each day I grow weaker and my mother does too and I'm starting to think this trade isn't working very well at all i've become the stereotype of getting out & getting out & getting out & growing up but I've lost too much momentum I didn't own in the first place and I think that's the kind of thing death collects on there is too much tension in my shoulders so I roll them back and someone asks if I got taller, am I taller, am I growing up, do they even recognize me and I say no if this is my time and all I have left is a few inches to grow before taxes I'll take it that's not the kind of thing death will be picky about.