the midnight crawl,
soul tired, to the point of breaking;
worn thin by clawing fingernails and
3 years of possession, loss of identity.
My body is no longer my body,
my skin stretched to unrecognizable lengths.
2 am, the ghosts in the corner are quiet,
but the screaming won’t falter.
mind on the brink of madness,
moonlight shining from beyond the veil.
raw, red wounds; old and new.
hair freshly matted, eyes pulsating to
stay awake. coffee can’t solve this
puzzle of exhaustion.
bloody fingertips, i am holding the needle.
but the tapestry has escaped my control;
there are no shears of destiny to cut
away the fate you forge for yourself.
you are the blood of your blood.
bliss, a moment of peace, before the
to wear again.
the monster is only that which you created.
I am the villian in your storybook,
the dragon you valiantly splatter across the pages
in the final chapter.
I am your most violent words,
the sound of breaking and the loss of innocence.
(I am the glass shard in your heart,
the inescapable wound).
I pretend that the syllables of your name
do not violate the edge of my tongue,
but you dull me down to a gentle curve
with your veritable virtue.
It is not your body I wish to victimize,
but your soul; I want to view the parts
that make you less than whole.
(you cut me open, vivisect my most
important organ until it beats only for you).
I am not variable, I am constant.
(i am still ticking between your fingers).
I never claimed loving me would be easy.
(you begged me to make it fair–
I shoved a knife in the space between your ribs
and ate your breath to the rhythm of your surprise).
I always had this notion,
that you belonged not with me
but to me.
(that was our final undoing. that
act of possession over partnership).
I can still feel the slide of you lips
against my skin as I took your first kiss
(the world you were all to happy to part with),
the spark of your body as, years later,
I took your innocence, your convictions
(it was all too easy).
(you never quite gave up the hold on your heart).
I never wanted it to end this way.
(you made me your villian–
I took the shape of the words you left unsaid,
and in their absense became brighter than the force of your soul).
you spent years asking me to write
the final page,
gloss the finish you couldn’t
(the beginnings that sprouted
from the pages I burned
are more beautiful than I
ever could’ve put to words).
my last gift to you.
I was tired of scrambling around to find the good things. I was sick of trying. Tired of lying. Sick of watching the masquerade that played around me. Who was real and who was not? Tick, tock, I was running out of time. Out of energy. Out of will. Out of self.
I was burning to the ground. Falling as the sun crisped my wings. The blood was staining my hands. We all fell down.
I longed for the innocence of a child. The naivety. The imagination that could create worlds without having to sleep. I needed someone to light my candle. Replace the wick. I was going too fast, trapped in a box with no sound.
The ocean was crashing over my head. I was drowning. I couldn’t breathe. The walls were closing in. Wasn’t anyone there? Can anybody here me?
(Is this just another story?)
I don’t want to wake up some distant morning from now, filled with regret and resentment. I don’t know if happiness is part of the equation, our equation, my equation. I don’t think there is room for both of us in this relationship. I won’t lay down my dreams for you, I can’t sacrifice my potential to help you fulfill yours. I would support you, uphold you; I would do everything I could to stand by you, everything but walking away from my own chances.
I’ll likely never be satisfied. I demand a lot from the world, from the people around me, and especially from myself. I set impossible standards, and I hold everyone accountable. One of the many reasons I don’t have many friends, I’m sure.
I know exactly now what I’d have to give up to make this relationship work, and I can’t make those sacrifices. The things I have to leave behind to achieve what I want are different from the things you to have to walk away from, and so we are walking in opposite directions. I have to do what is right for me, even if that means letting you go.
And maybe that’s the point: I prioritize my life above anything else. I value my dreams more than my relationships, I value my purpose more than the idea of stable and idealistic future. I have to do what is necessary for me, even if is does not fit into your scope of reality.
Please don’t ask me to apologize for that. Please just stop trying to make sense of this fairytale. Understand that we are fiction, believe that we have made the choice of where we stand with each other–it was never partners.
You wanted me infinite, so I chose the only part of me that can be. I chose my freedom.
i’m just waiting for you to tell me
all the ways love isn’t enough.
i don’t think i’d blame you.
after all, i was the one who ate the apple;
you were just the man that loved me
without knowing what love was.
see the fruit in my hand and remember
adam and eve. persephone and hades.
remember the ways that I betray you,
remember my fascination with the snake in the grass,
remember that I am just a girl with pomegranate lips
and I will continue to poison you.
we are the same constellation in the sky,
but i am just a nebula and you are still
living, breathing, existing; you are
light entering my eyes–
we exist within the same sphere,
we are already a billion light years
and a whole galaxy apart.
Why does the beginning always feel like the end?
every breath you take is just foreshadowing the moment your lungs cease.
every beat of your heart is a beat closer to slowing.
every word from your mouth might be the last to touch your lips.
when you touch my skin I feel like a dying star, moments away from supernova.
when you enter my bloodstream, I feel the way my pulse changes to accommodate you.
why does it feel like every time we’re ending, we’re just breaths away from the next heartbeat?