I don’t care that you got into drugs for three months straight, or how much sleep you lost in that period. I don’t care that you went home and fucked that person and woke up at 6am hating everything about yourself, or that you smoked so much you sounded as though your lungs were giving out.
You’re not a bad person for the ways you tried to kill your sadness.
You’re just human, and being human means you need to survive and you do so whichever way you deem fit, fuck everyone else.”
"you’re not a bad person for the ways you tried to kill your sadness"
No one writes about the silence
after the loss of love. No one talks
about the aching in your veins or
the constant battle between choosing
to burn their presence from your fingers,
or shedding your own skin. No one tells
you about the nightmares, about the darkness.
No one prepares you for the loneliness.
You have been visiting
more frequently in the night.
I wake every morning
with a heavy heart and
a thought of whether you
can feel me missing you
from wherever you are.
I wonder if my heart still
holds within it the ability
to make yours ache.
I have always been a
selfish lover, praying
that you’ll come home.