(via thechocolatebrigade)
and it’s just like having her next to me, pulling my hair.
words that will never be just words. letters strung together on our tongues.
in love and death we passed it back and forth. threw it all around until you might think we lost focus, you might think we lost heart. but it never soured, it always said what our palms pressed together, our hips pressed together, could not.
i carry your heart. still.
god i hope you’re safe, somewhere.
Hey Bambibeatdown, I can eat Butterfingers and get fat and you cannot. Nanner nanner. Perks of being a consumer in America! xD
that’s just mean!
butterfingers = want.
not even ninety days between breathing and buried. sometimes i think im falling apart over her, somedays i forget how to feel. he said, do you know how hard it is for me to walk into your bedroom and see her photographs on your wall? i said nothing, just drunk my beer and smoked my cigarettes. but i thought, and how hard is it for you to pretend like you don’t already see her face every day? how hard is it to say her name out loud every time you talk about your new girl. every time you whisper it to her, you’re whispering it across our girl’s back. they share a name and nothing else, but surely, those five letters are haunting you more than photographs on a wall ever could. everything you told me on my balcony. you should have told her. we both should have told her.
all of this time, i knew that you were a big talker. i had hoped against hope that you weren’t. i had hoped that all of the ways you had talked about your heart, and my heart, would not just be words. and after everything, after all the clever lines spat out with your silver tongue, i mostly just hoped that you wouldn’t talk about my mother like that. that you wouldn’t talk about surviving this with me, talk about her death and my life, if you had no intention of really sitting next to me and helping me breathe. that is the worst part. that is what hurts most. you told me not to be scared, and i believed i wouldn’t have to be. this is not a game for me, she is really fucking dying. this is a anvil that i carry in my lungs every day. and for you to use it, for you to hold it up as a part in whatever fucking game you’ve been playing. yeah, you know the rest. i am so fucking angry at you that i am numb. i am not surprised, just not quite prepared. but thems the breaks.
delete my number out of your phone. erase all of my photographs, the ones you keep hidden from her. don’t send me your fucking poetry. move across the country and forget that you ever crushed my spine with hope. forget that i ever believed in your practised words.
i didn’t ever expect you. but i expected more than this.
she rings like a bell through the night
and wouldn’t you love to love her.
i just want to be alone. so i can hear my breath and my bones sigh. i knit myself closed, sew my fingers over my chest and hold tight. i dont like the person i am anymore. i am sad, and it hurts. i am angry too, and that hurts more. i wanted a year without lovers and i managed days. i wanted loneliness, but i let you crawl into my bed and between my teeth without a fight. old habits die hard. i was a lover before i knew what love was, running my body and my mind around like scented baits for the dogs. i guess it serves me right, this grave i have found myself at the bottom of. we fuck and leech and suck the life out of each other, all of us. baring our teeth and our arteries for the hunt and the blood let. i dont want no part in this. not without my fingers in his hair, my spine against his familiar wall. so i just want to be alone. because he’s not here anymore. so what’s the point?
