This is my heart
The night I was shown that you can stop loving someone infected some part of my soul. The overflowing passion that once inhabited my veins had started to drain out. When this sort of thing occurs, it is only a natural instinct that you must make yourself full again.
Every set of lips pressed against my skin only made my voice sound hollow. And the amount of empty I love you’s was cutting me open. All I want to do is pour every last ounce of myself into a being where “I love you” helplessly stumbles from your lips in which I wish to kiss until the stars burn out.
But arms are empty and minds are full. Dwelling on why I’m inhaling this smoke into my lungs instead of using my breath to ask you why this happened. Sometimes sleep nods away from me because the pillow I lay my head on is too full of the secrets I have cried into it.
And oh my god if I could stop biting my lips until they bleed and wash my hair more and maybe get myself to do my laundry then maybe someone would look at me and see more than one night. I don’t know if certain hands were avoidable but I do know I damn well tried to burn away where they touched, leaving me patched up and frail.
And nothing is worse than you endlessly talking into the blank eyes of someone whom you see is growing tired of hearing your cliche broken record, echoing out the hazy nights where you drowned your sorrow in a bottle of something that burned on the way down and blah blah blah. They’ve heard it before.
It’s almost like you have no other purpose than to present your skin to every rough eyed mortal that would “bestow” his limited interest. Aching. Aching. Aching. But for what?
You painfully do not see the endearment I have for pretty much everything. It wraps around my heart and lungs like vines, making it hard to breathe. I have no where or no one to flush these vines into and what a shame because there are flowers blooming and they are so beautiful.