“You’ve gotten into my subconscious,
even when I’m not thinking about you,
I am. I’ve gotten to know the trite parts
of you without asking. I’ve noted the
marks on your body without meaning
to do so, when my eyes involuntarily
shift from your hair to your hands to
the way you cross your legs. I’m
beginning to dream about you, and
for once I feel safe even if you’re
not spending the night. Even when
you’re not around, I still see you
in everything I do. You’re not just
in the back of my mind, you’re
everywhere to me, and it scares me
in the best way possible.”
“it’s because we refuse to change
that we commit the same mistakes
again and again. Our apologies
end up empty and unmeant, and
sorry becomes a word over-recycled.
We know our thorns, yet we refuse
to snip away the parts of us that
we know inflict pain. When we love,
shouldn’t we try our very best to
avoid hurting those we want to hold?
But we cling to our sharp edges,
all for the sake of sparing our pride
and preserving a so-called identity
that we could be better off without.”
“When people stop writing, it’s one of two things - they are either really fucking happy or broken beyond repair.”
“I want you to stop me.
I want you to take the blade
I wield against my own skin
and throw it as far as you can,
farther than my feet can ever reach.
I want you to take the calm
that comes after the storm
and lay it underneath my tempests
when my ships aren’t at bay
and my anchors aren’t sunken.
When my mind is just as disheveled
as my cluttered room and I can’t
find the answer underneath all
the dirty laundry and crumpled sheets,
I want you to shut me up.
When I’m spewing hatred
against myself with my fists
clenched towards my face
and my eyes on the ground,
I want you to lift my chin up
when my neck is weak and broken.
Speak to me the three words
that make everything better,
that’s all I need to know
for me to be.”
“The thing is, I’m not cool like that. I get jealous when you talk about your exes. Just a mention of their names gets my blood curdling. I get insecure when you talk about your crushes even though I have some of my own. The difference is that I keep them to myself because really, they don’t matter. I can’t take being called stupid even if it’s meant jocularly. Mean words hurt, and it hurts even more when I try to throw it back at you just to get even. I don’t know how to tell the difference between a banter and an insult. I take things too seriously and over think matters that don’t matter. I’m too concerned with what people think of me. I feel guilty too easily. I’m too mature for my own good in many ways but also immature in more. I’m a dork. Why can’t you get that?”
When an artist loves
When an artist loves, he wants to see you. All of you. Every inch and nook and cranny of you. Know that he sees you as a masterpiece. You are his masterpiece. He’ll keep you in display in the walls of his heart. He wants to know you. He wants to know every blemish and mole and scar you guard with resolute adamancy. He won’t care about the pimple scar you collected in eighth grade or the oddly shaped mark bestowed upon you by birth. Your every flaw is his every perfection because he sees you the way he would admire a painting – as a whole. Your every foible comes with reason, and he understands that, just as every brushstroke and strike of a chisel comes with purpose. All of you, the good parts and the bad, come together to form that one coherent piece that he will forever cherish. He loves you. He’ll treasure you. He’ll do anything and everything to keep envious hands away from what he knows belongs to him.
The thing about staying is that sooner or later, everyone leaves, and the thing about leaving is that there might not be anyone left to come back to.