#wordpuke

but, oh, my sweet, sweet boy, i would rather bang my head against the wall than forget about you. i would rather jump from the highest mountain than escape the ghost of you. i think i can still feel you sometimes, whispering in my ear, warming me up at night. i refuse to regret even the tiniest part of you that i have touched— and that i can remember.

it really isn’t all romance when it’s about us. it isn’t the giggling moments we spent together. it isn’t the first and last kisses. it isn’t how you sang my name like a lullaby. it isn’t you crawling on my ceiling; it isn’t my long conversations before bed. it’s the bruises. it’s the arguments we created leaking obscene insults. it’s my lack of loyalty. it’s our continuous bloodshed. it’s the trauma. it’s the contaminated intimacy. it’s the memories of me fading and falling. it’s you constantly questioning if you used to be good enough- instead of questioning what was wrong with me all along. i wore my red flags as badges. i grabbed your face and made you look back at me. molding the glare you gave me with my palms. i wore a smoke screen behind my eyes. you swore you’d entered my solace, but it was just another prison. i promised that i was a prophet. i assured you that we would never die, but the last time we spoke was at a funeral. i can assure you that i sacrificed all of the light within me to be reimbursements for you. i wore the mask of a criminal. i decided you were luxury and i was chump change...and it was all just spare change. which you used on the gumball machines. you threw it in the wishing wells. you dropped it in that homeless mans tin cup. discarding those guilty coins is exactly how you released me. i’m still searching for those that shining currency cause my pockets empty baby... my pockets are hollow and so is my heart. you say im forgiven but your curse is merciless and devilish. it provokes the critters in my corners. you don’t want that war with me, do you? you act pretentious. acting like i’m the only one who is sick. you endured change. it taught you some things about me; it also taught you how to be like me. you’re slick. a serpents skin is never forgotten. angelic, wet and neon; you owned me as the villain. your reactions burned me in the third degree. but you forgot, once you’re in, you don’t get out. i don’t care how damaged you are. you’re not leaving. i can clean the wounds on your celestial parts, but don’t act like my holy blood isn’t thicker than their holy water.

there is an Desperation imbibed

in our souls

the first time misha picked up a guitar in my house, he played zemfira’s hochesh’.  Пожалуйста, не умирай Или мне придется тоже,