The Rose That Wilted

the candle is burning at both ends and the wick is running short.

he rarely speaks plainly, nor is he particularly open, but in the late nights when he speaks to me in his prose and poems i can’t help but believe that he’s letting me peek through the curtains. even if it’s only a sliver

i feel foolish

it feels like all the effort i’m making is amounting to zero. i don’t know if i’d go as far as saying it feels like the walls are crumbling around me but it certainly feels close. i’m stagnate and i don’t even think it’s my fault. i’m doing everything i can to get out and i think i’m running out of options. i’ve exhausted all my resources and it feels like all i have to do now is get lucky and that’s absolutely not a strong suit

becoming increasingly acutely aware how one sided this whole thing is becoming....

even if you never say anything again, i’ll always at the very least say hello

i'm scared

it would be nice if you saw me like i see you

what can i even do

i think deep down i always knew this about myself. i've just never had an external reaction to this kind of settling realization and acceptance. i feel sad for myself and the younger me who didn't know what this was but relieved that i am truly making the change. for myself. just for me.

we used to write each other a lot. i think i loved you before i knew what that meant. even if it wasn’t technically anything, i’d like to believe there was some truth to it. our final words were bitter sweet but necessary. i wonder if you remember it the way i do- if you remember at all. i think i loved you before i knew what that meant.

you cannot ask someone to lean on you and then not treat them gently

i wrote a song about a tree. a tree i would sit with almost 15 years ago. i doubt the memory of me lingers with them the way they do with me