leave;left

I want it all. The career. The love. The life.

Masculine and feminine are over. Its just The Urge now. The desire. The torment.

he says he doesn’t feel anything, but i think about the little boy inside him that gets excited by the sound of the ocean, and smiles like a child at the mere thought of it, the man who understands art and quotes and poetry and reads jane austen, because isn’t love for the ocean more than nothing? isn’t that feeling, that heavy tug on your chest when you read something that somehow worded what you couldn’t more than nothing? isn’t that feeling when you sat with me and read poetry more than nothing? he thinks he’s capable of cruelty but sometimes when we’re clubbed inside 4 small walls, we have big thoughts to make up for lack of fresh air, our brain tries to make up for the feeling our heart craves and sometimes we have bad thoughts but they aren’t our fault, and if i want him to know if he could befriend a being as gentle as angry as me, his thoughts couldn’t be true. i want him to know he is kinder than he thinks and holds more goodness than he knows.

complicated relationships with your parents are like. you cut up fruit and bring it to my room without me asking. i can't remember the last time you told me that you were proud of me. you told me i wasn't good enough for you but i'm not even good enough for myself. your hugs feel like coming home. i can't tell you anything that happens in my life. i doubt myself every day because of something you said to me when i was eight. would you like to hear about my day? please don't ask me about my day. i miss you even though you're in the next room. i wish we didn't live together. i've never loved or resented anyone as much as i've loved and resented you. are you okay? are we okay? are we ever going to be okay?

i remember you telling me that i feel like van goghs starry night to you.i wanted to say but i feel like his suicide note. i didn’t. because that would’ve been an unravelling, and unravelling strips away till you reach the end, and in my end there is no starry night. there is no, well, anything. and i’d rather be untouched than have you know that there is no art here, except the ones on my thighs. my entire life seems to have been a prolonged act of death. is living worth it when i only do it from others perception of me?

tired of living my life, i want a 4 year break

tired of living my life, i want a 4ever break