You are my darkest childhood nightmare;
every primal paranoia, the itch underneath my skin
that loosened the bolts of my mind.
That is why I love you,
and that is why I hate myself.
I cannot escape how intertwined we’ve grown.
You are the music and the misery,
and yet I’m nothing more than a point in time.
You burn my lungs.
I scream out my oozing heart,
but I cannot make you feel a goddamn thing.
And honestly you’re all I’ve ever really tried for.
Now I only want you more.
I am stoned on your indifference.
Forget me; laugh it off,
find a girl to love—
I’ll be waiting by the phone.
I need your voice, not the words.
I’ll still be here when it’s dark and quiet in your room,
and you’re vulnerable,
and you think of the shit you regret.
But if this is all I will ever be—
if things continue to change but always remain the same—
I am leaving us both.
Maybe the smell of smoke was us the whole time.
Your handwriting. The way you walk. Which china pattern you choose. It’s all giving you away. Everything you do shows your hand. Everything is a self portrait. Everything is a diary.