Szenenwechsel.

“And if you are someone who still carries hope in your heart, kindness in your eyes and generosity in your fingertips despite terrible people happening to you, thank you. You are one of the few truly pure things left in this world, and you deserve to be protected.”

“I go to books and to nature as the bee goes to a flower, for a nectar that I can make into my own honey.”

“Why didn’t I learn to treat everything like it was the last time. My greatest regret was how much I believed in the future.”

I feel like I have so much to say and also nothing to say. Like I’m full and sort of hollow at the same time. Endings. Beginnings.

“I pray you’re ok. That it’s okay. I pray all the parts of you that I remember are still there. I pray that you’re happy. Even if it’s not with me.”

Vergeben bedeutet nicht “was du mir angetan hast ist okay”

“But what if you never got to kiss him? What if you never got to hold his hand? What if you never got to feel his arms around you, breathe in the air around him and feel his silence? How do you get over him then? What if you still have his laughter spilling out of your pockets, the sound of him saying your name ringing in your ears, wishing that he’d grab your arm when you were walking away, knowing that he never would? How do you get over someone who you never had? How do you forget things that never happened? Do you ever stop loving someone who never knew how you felt? Do you ever learn to forgive yourself for not telling them?”

“Sometimes I wish I was a little kid again…skinned knees are easier to fix than broken hearts!”

“this is an angry poem. it is bloody and it is wounded and it is angry. i keep saying that this will be the last thing. the last metaphor, the last analogy. i keep telling myself that this will be the last poem, but you’re so fucking easy to write about because it’s so fucking easy for you to get under my skin. you never even left. and you don’t even do anything, that’s the funny part. you don’t do a damn thing because you don’t care anymore. you’re gone. disappeared. you do not give a shit about me, but the songs still do. the poetry still does. how easy it must have been for you to leave such a permanent mark on me. i’m as impressionable as clay. slam your hand into me and walk away laughing because the mark would still be here months after you’d washed your hands of me. i wake up every morning and i say, “today is the last day." but my body, still molded by your fingertips, says, "no. not yet.” this is an angry poem. it is bloody and it is wounded and it is angry. angry at what? i’m not even sure anymore. some days i think i’m still angry at you but really, i think i’m just angry at myself for not being able to get you out of my skin.”

“We found each other I helped you out of a broken place You gave me comfort But falling for you was my mistake”