3 am is the forgotten time, where my fingers won't stop moving and my bones ache so deeply that NASA better point their telescopes at my bedroom to see the next black hole. Friends pound their fists against my closed door, just to see eyes that haven't stopped leaking since you left and they say- "it will be okay, I've been here before." Is it okay when every single night is one more beer, just give me a fifth beer and I need a whole damn bottle of vodka so I can finally find peace? I wonder what it's like to feel in shades of color, to know the entire spectrum. It's so hard to forget the infinite number of colors in a single hue. How do you expect me to say I feel when I mean I hurt so bad I am Navy goddamn blue? My heart is a freezer chest with the hinges wide open and slowly leaking happiness. I am just starting to listen when they tell me you are not my sponge, they say, let me help you mop that up. They hand me notebooks and colored pens and say, "Write about me this time."
"Everyone wants to be a poet but no one wants to feel it." -C.Maxwell
