I’m Not Ready

I’m not ready to tell you my story, but like in a lot of cases, I have to tell my story anyways. I’ll start at the ending, because it feels as if that’s where it all started.

I loved her like I loved the power of the ocean, and although it scared me shitless, I was addicted to the feelings she gave me. I no longer coexisted in the world of the black and white thinking, I resided in the shades of gray, with tones of something dangerous in the shadows.

She left me with chills under my skin and the smell of smoke in my hair. She left me with scratches on my back and a wonder in my head that left me staring at bathroom stalls questioning just how the angles of the her body got so God damn beautiful. I could hear her breathe, chilling my neck in our heated moments, and fuck, the way her teeth bit into the flesh of her lips when you know she’s climbing higher than ever before.

I don’t know where she is, where her soul lies, but I know where her body resides, and it’s beside mine, at least for tonight.

I like the beat of her heart that coincides with the rhythm of the song playing as we share a smoke in the winter night. I get tired, but I’ve never felt more of the two at one time when I’m around her. She’s a fucking drug, one that sedates the screams of the nightmares and echos the sound how much I want the world to end in her arms.

This violence behind the lids of my eyes, it’s burning my soul, making me sweat with fear that I’ll never see her again. Oh how I’m in love with her body, but more so her mind, and no spiritualist could tell me the mind is evil, because no spec of her soul could be so dirty.

-The Part Where I Died