I had never seen the night so dark,
—–and I used to believe that darkness was where I belonged,
but I was so terrified of being lost
and never being found again.
I felt lonely.
You were talking over my favourite songs
and I didn’t mind
because I’m afraid of being lonely
but I felt so lonely.
I kept singing,
even as you spoke,
my voice was like something broken;
cracking through cracked lips,
but I sang about a crowded highway
and your voice found me.
People have always said that
——-“you cannot be loved until you love yourself,”
but I have been trying to love myself for years
and I’ve seen people
—who love themselves a lot less than me
—being loved a lot more than me.
And I don’t know how much longer I can do it;
how much longer I can look in the mirror and say
——–“I do love you,”
because it’s starting to sound more like a lie
than a declaration of truth.
Maybe when I can look into my own eyes,
look at my entire body,
—-“I hate you,”
I’ll be able to find love more powerful
than what I’ve been giving myself.
Maybe I never truly learned
—–how to love myself in the first place.
You were screaming the lyrics that I loved
but had never heard,
and my greasy hair was sticking to my shoulders
and shining like gold in the sunlight.
I tucked it behind my ear
as the freeway was speeding by
and I wanted to whisper, “Slow down,
we’ll be home too soon,”
but you would never have slowed
because you always loved being the fastest.
If I had asked you how you knew that you loved me,
you would have said, “Because it hurts.”
And I already knew that pain too well
—-because I was pulling out my hair in the shower
—-and biting back tears
every time you turned your back on me.
I already knew how much it ached
——–to be missing you
——–and hating you at the same time,
—and no amount of crying into my pillow changed you.
Time was torturing me:
I had forgotten how it felt to smile,
how it felt to sing to a love song,
how to stop crying so I could sleep.
I seemed to forget everything
And even though you hugged me,
———with tear stained eyes,
—admitting, “I love you,”
———(as if I hadn’t known all along),
you still left me empty when you walked out.
——For months I thought I was living without you,
but I wasn’t living at all,
———-and I knew this when
his lips touched mine and they weren’t right
—because they weren’t yours.
I wanted to tell you that I missed you,
but my friends
convinced me that you were cancer of the heart.
And it wasn’t until you lifted me up
almost a year later,
————–kissed my face
——and told me (finally) that you were sorry,
that I realised that if love was hurt,
like you said,
then you were hurting me more than I could handle.
But, if loving you was hurt,
then I would bathe my body in pain
——–before giving you up
I am angry because:
people don’t take me seriously
—— and they say that I would look better with shorter hair
——-just because they like shorter hair.
And they stare at me with sympathy
when they tell me how sad it is that I don’t want kids,
but I hate children. (That doesn’t matter).
I can listen to the same song twenty times in a day
but I can’t keep reliving the same moments
—–because none of them are mine.
You still expect me to be okay with it all.
Because you want me to watch her dance
and look at her drawings and watch him be happy
but you didn’t even ask me to share my happiness.
(Which is writing by the way, just in case you never knew)
And because I can’t feel love anymore
—-(how do I show it?)
——–I don’t want love anymore.
I hate love.
Because the only thing I’ve learned about love
is that it is never for me.
My skin is too tight on my bones,
my mind is suffocating
and no one listens to me when I talk.
I feel trapped inside here,
my eyes wide open
with no one looking back at me
and an open mouth
with no one listening to me.
But I write so many words,
hoping that I won’t have to use my mouth,
but no one reads my words
and no one asks about them either.
I am words
written on bricks
that no one reads.
I am words
that don’t need to be said.
(don’t want to be heard).
I am broken promises and lost memories in
a body that is not desired
and a mind that is homesick for somewhere else.
in this world
in between now and then,
never moving. Always still.
Waiting for something to change:
anything and everything.
Waiting for something to be different
But everything is always the same
and I am never going to change
I will always look and be