#darkhours

The second they leave, the second I push them out, I start to realize what I missed. The first time we met, I was drawn into them and now we’re the same side of a magnet, unattracted, pushing away.

Wait till you can lay back, legs up and head pointed to the sky. That’s when you can think freely. That’s when you want to do nothing but look around and feel grateful for the grass between your toes and the breeze swaying in your hair. That’s when you feel like it’s possible to fall in love with life and all it’s little moments.

Draw me a nice warm bath and let me sit in a pool of my boiling blood. Let me rest, tilt my head back and let me think of all my wrongdoings and shortcomings. It’s better if I’m encouraged to do it. Thank you in advance.

You never know what you’ve lost until you’re laying in your bed in the darkest of the night. You won’t feel the pain of their absence until your eyes are bloodshot and sickly dilated. You won’t know they’re truly gone until the thought of them reappears every now and then.

Why do you romanticize mental illness? Why do you wish to live with a burdening disease that leaves you restless and torn? It’s not fun. I waited so many months before I confessed my emotions and troubles to my mom and she shushed me, telling me I was acting crazy. You don’t want that. You don’t want to romanticize being ignored by your own parent. You don’t want to be silenced when coming forward.

I’ve glued my heart together one too many times. If you grab and pull it apart, the ventricles and veins will separate. Pulled like threads in a washed out, ripped pair of blue jeans. Blood will drip all over your hands, so be careful. Don’t worry about the mess. I’ll clean it up when you’re gone. I get myself into trouble and it’s all I’ve ever done.