The sky was beautiful tonight and I wish you could have seen it, but you’re beyond reach and there are more people missing from my heart then I had counted in the sky.
Tag: writer
YOU DIDN’T
HAVE TO BE SO FUCKING MEAN.
‘WHY CAN’T YOU UNDERSTAND THAT I HAD FEELINGS FOR YOU’
BUT I KNOW THAT YOU UNDERSTAND THAT,
IT IS JUST THAT YOU DON’T WANT TO KNOW IT.
YOU DON’T WANT TO BE THE ONE TO BLAME,
THAT I MIGHT BE HURTING.
AND YOU DON’T HAVE TO BE,
BUT YOU MAY NEVER EVER BLAME ME
THAT I STILL WRITE ABOUT YOU.
If a writer falls in love with you, you can never die – Mik Everett
#69
You asked me why I loved her and I asked you why you didn’t
‘fine’
I thought that it would be ‘fine’, or at least ‘okay’, but it wasn’t ‘fine’ nor ‘okay’, it was fucking terrible. It was this aching and persistent pain which I couldn’t get a hold of. It was the kind of heart break that leaves you wondering.. why why why why. And you’ll never get an honest answer so you begin blaming yourself. And when you begin blaming yourself you’re starting to realize that it wasn’t your fault. It wasn’t my fault that she decided to leave. I was never the one to blame for the fact that we’re not speaking to each other anymore. I tried, I tried my best to make things work. I tried to give her space, I respected her feelings and her fears. But what I didn’t respect was the fact that I was never given a chance. She knew. She knew after all that it wouldn’t last longer than three weeks. Because she would give up and walk away. She would do anything to protect herself from being hurt again. She would rather keep her guards than to accept my love for her. Because I had so many stories about the stars in her eyes, but they dimmed on a cloudy evening. Because I had so many things I wanted to show her, but now I look for her in every crowded room. Because I had so many words I wanted to give to her, and now I spill them like red wine on a tablecloth.
I won’t
I won’t tell you what I want to tell you. I won’t tell how I feel. I won’t tell you how to fucking live your life. I won’t tell you that you aren’t taking every chance. I won’t tell you that you are letting fear rule you. I won’t tell you that you that fear of commitment isn’t a real thing. I won’t tell you that it is actually fear of letting go, or being left. I won’t tell you that I’ll never fucking break your heart. I won’t have to, you never let me in. I won’t tell you that you can trust me, you won’t tell me anything. I won’t tell you that I know shit better. I won’t tell you that because I’m three years younger than you. I won’t be the one to tell you that you’re absolutely deadly gorgeous. I won’t scare the shit out of you. I won’t be the one to be there for you, even if you decide to need me. I won’t fucking wait around for you to change your mind. I won’t hold you at night when you are feeling lonely. I won’t tell you that there is more to life than smoking and drinking. I won’t tell you I think you’re lying. I won’t tell you you’re a fucking liar. I won’t tell you that you should have told the truth. I won’t be your girl. I won’t be the one to tell you everything you need to hear. I won’t be the one to help you. I won’t be the one to make you better. I won’t be the one that will love you forever. I won’t be the one. I will not
Saturday.
When I approach her my knees are weak and my heart trembles. When I leave her behind in the last room it feels like I’m stabbing my own heart and feel like I’ve lost you. Every time we reunite I can’t help but hold on to your hand as if it was my infusion. I get dazed by the complicated paintings on the ceiling, but I could get completely lost in your eyes. Your pace is a bare moderate version of mine, and I thought we would always catch up. But now I’m standing here staring into the crowded room behind me. I swear you were there. I know you were. I stood there and waited. I stood there and tried to find you. The paintings can be breathtaking and the museum could be made of gold. But you were a collectors item, a special edition fineprint. But you were limited, and now you’re gone.
Incomplete
I feel incomplete, I keep on looking for answers. I feel indecisive, my mind is going round and round and never stops. I feel hesitant and doubtful, I can’t seem to be determined. I feel anxious, I’m scared and everything creeps upon me. I am missing protection, I miss a certain kind of warm safety. I know what is missing. It is joy. It is happiness. But mostly, fulfillment.
The overthinking 