Tumblr is broken.
It does not bring me that feeling
that it once did—
that feeling where you could do
anything
and be
anyone.
Tumblr has become
shallow and
exhausted
and
no one reads my posts anymore.
(did they even?)
It does not make me
smile or
laugh and cry
or think of you
the way it used to.
It’s changed.
It’s not the same.
Did I change too?
(did you?)
Happy Victoria Day!
(also now it’s raining and there’s a thunderstorm. who needs fireworks when you got lightning? xP)
No;
this is not meant to be a guilt-trip,
mental kick-flip slash pick-n-flick,
no.
But to be honest I feel
empty, as if my hands don’t work,
as if they fall open and my
failures start pouring out from my wrists;
no.
The pressure squeezes my brain,
tighter by the second, tighter
so it’s hard to reckon
that I’m dying;
so that it’s hard to tell
how long it’s been
and where you are
and why I feel so cold
no.
And they say it’s hard to let go
but I’ve let you know
because I couldn’t hold on
yet you’re still here;
go.
No.
You couldn’t leave if you tried,
wiping your eyes while I
stand at the door and pretend
to hide, pretend
that it’s fine;
no,
you can’t leave because
how can I breathe—
but if you rip, pull, tear, punch
a harder blow to my heart,
I won’t have any more reason
not to say no.
So,
I’m letting you go, and
no,
I’m not alright,
but I’ll be fine without you;
at least,
I’m hoping that much is true.
So please go.
I guess now I’m sick of being treated like I’m unaware of who I am and what is right and what is wrong. I know when I’m doing something stupid, no you don’t need to tell me, I can do this on my own.
Let me be eighteen so I can turn nineteen and be normal. I want to make my own choices and I’ll ask you for help when and if I need it but please don’t hold me back anymore because I’m tired of dragging your weight.
Don’t tell me to grow up and yet still treat me like a child. You cause my mood to fluctuate with every kiss with your fist and arrow to my side, with words like knives in my back, blades sharp enough to slice through the letting go of a single hair from above. That’s a precursor to the creation of bipolar disorder if I ever saw one.
Take these broken feet
and lead me to the place
where the grass
covers my face
and the sun
shines on my wrists.
Take these shattered hands
and bury me under the old willow
where the dreams
will last forever
and the river
knows my very name.
I wanted you to be the type of boy who wouldn’t
break my heart,
and maybe that’s why this failed.
Maybe it was my expectations, and
maybe it was the fact that I loved you too much,
and constantly.
Maybe I should have tried a little less.
Here are the pieces
and here
ripped seams
and paper clippings
are lost,
tucked in the
cracks of the floorboards.
Here is the sunlight
shining through your hair
as you walked out the door
and here,
here
is where you said
goodbye.
What a great day
to break my heart.
.
Take a misty Sunday morning
and a steaming cup of something
and melt your soul,
like the sun climbs up
your clammy arms,
and just sit.
Paint your canvas of pain
on the backs of yellow daffodils
and drink the dew like wine;
get intoxicated.
Be alive this time.
