break ups

Flashing Lights.

If something hurts you enough, you pretend it doesn’t exist. The less power you put on something, the more power you want to forget it. I can’t say I miss the past with it’s nostalgic cloud that hangs over me. I can’t say I miss you, without feeling like a fucking hypocrite. I love how memories form in between the liner notes. How melody haunts a montage of memories harbored deep inside of your soul. How people have a way of coming into your life, without physically being there anymore.

I should have said goodbye a long time ago. I should have written this elaborate “dear john” letter the moment things changed. The moment I couldn’t hear songs the same way. The moment I felt I couldn’t be myself anymore. I felt ruined, that a part of me stopped believing in the cliche kitschy things of yesterday. I lost, you won, and everything else that follows, but all of that is old news. This cloud of fog that follows. Opening up a series of smokey destinations, I didn’t know I wanted to exist anymore. Old distant news with headlines of the past.

Smoke and mirrors, and shooting stars. Waiting, wanting, and longing for things that never had a place with me to begin with. Even after all this time, I can’t help but wonder what was the biggest illusion. What was your biggest performance. This belief of being greater and better then the rulers of the past. The lights flash, the lights dim, and I can’t help but still wonder. Even stars fall, even lights dim, eventually the darkest nights make way for the brightest mornings. The further you fall, the closest to the ground you become. All I could ever want is to see you crash and burn, just like the rest of them. Maybe you need to hit rock bottom to see how it feels on the other side.

I would never wish bad things upon you, but I could never wish you well. Seeing the last of our memories behind the glass, in photographs and songs, I just can’t help myself. I was never the good, I was never the light, but I could be the darkness in all it’s glory. I hate myself for believing in all the wrong things. Believing in sinners dressed up as saints in their perfectly tailored suits. Watching the fog clear, watching the smoke disappear and everything has changed. Songs have a different meaning, once you can listen to them again. Melody fills the cracks where the light once hit. Sooner or later, I start to feel like myself again.

I don’t believe in shooting stars, but I never believed in the ghosts of memories you gave me.  You never wanted me to hate you, and I don’t. I just want to forgive then forget you, then move on.


Trying my Best to Love You.

Two weeks.

Enough is enough, is what I said to myself with my arms outstretched to the sky. Its moments like this that I wonder if I wanted it to end before anything even started. Wanting the pain before it even hit me. I reached out for the pain and found it aching in my bones.  I never knew in love that you could reach a breaking point. Because in every love song, there’s a happy ending. In every love story there’s still love that can be obtained. I waited for your return like every maiden in distress does, waiting for their knight to save them from themselves. It’s been two weeks and still I hear only the silence that separates us.

I was wrong for a lot of reasons and things. Wrong for the ways I knew I could have been better for you. Thats what this all was, just ways I could be better for you. Its been two weeks and I can’t wrap my head around much of anything lately. I am the one that’s suppose to make this better. I am the one that should be changing.  But I am the one thats sitting in my own melancholy glory. Sitting with my thoughts rambling together and causing chaos in my mind. We weren’t perfect but you thought otherwise. In your quest for perfection you lost everything and gained only what you wanted back. I can’t say everything that I want for fear of losing. Because losing you would be my greatest unhappiness and thats just what I did. I lost you and it’s been two weeks and I can’t help myself.

For a person who knew me better than I knew myself, you hardly knew me at all. When I pushed, I wanted you to pull back. I wanted you to see through the armor and tell me that everything was going to be okay. I was wrong to want you for all the things that made us break. I was wrong to be selfish in my own loneliness and expect someone to save me before I could even save myself. I never lied about who I was and you know exactly who I was when you met me. I was a vulnerable mess and broken to the touch. You knew that, all of that and still I couldn’t make you stay. It’s been two weeks and I can’t even begin to think what a lifetime could be without you.

Kissing a hundred boys won’t bring you back. No amount of drinks could ever drink you goodbye. Because saying goodbye would only mean I would lose you forever. I am not sure I am ready to take that risk. I am trying my best to love you, even if you don’t love me back. It’s been two weeks and I’m not sure I can’t last another lonely week.

I want you back my baby
I want you back in my arms
I want you back right now




Would it make you feel better to watch me while I bleed?

Words have a way of suffocating you when you’re trying to breathe. Long after they have been said. They’re the ghosts that come back to haunt you, long after the guilty parties have left. You cling on to them, allow them to marinate inside of you and never let them go. You find yourself believing these things because that’s what you’ve taught yourself to believe. Bruises heal, cuts scar, but words have this long lasting effect that echo through you on the darkest of days.

Everyone says to forget them. Erase them from your mind. That part of your life is over and time to focus on the now. Every once in a while when things happen to hurt more than normal you go back to those words. Those words that make your heart break. Those words that remind you of bleeding and hurting, all over again. You give these words all the power to infest your insides with hatred and you can’t help but allow it to. No matter what you tell yourself its always in the back of your mind, “You’re not good enough, and you never will be”. You are your worst critic and no matter what you tell yourself during the day, it’s the nights that haunt you more than anything. It’s the nights that you are honest with yourself and you can’t help but pick yourself apart. You’re only doing what others have done before you. Nit pick at everything you do and making themselves superior from how you’re feeling. It doesn’t make them ugly, because you know how ugly of a person you already are. Its the same fight you have over and over with yourself. This devil and god continuing to rage inside of you and you can’t help but succumb to the darkness. You fight this battle every night and you tell yourself one day it will be over, one day it will all disappear.

I wish it was easy to forget. That believing people was easy as snapping your fingers. It’s not. While I sit here I just want to pick at the broken scabs and watch myself bleed. It’s what everyone else wants. They want this failure, this shell of a person that radiates black and blue. They want a vessel to point fingers at. How easy it would be to watch the blood drain from my veins just to make you feel better. How easy it was to say the words and never caring of the actions that came after it. It takes more than an empty apology to make things better. I have a jar of empty apologizes and my arms sore from every cut you gave me. I can’t breathe anymore. I can’t sleep, I can’t think, and I can’t help but replay every negative aspect of life people have thrown against me. You make me a victim but I can’t help but always feel like the villain. I am the bad guy, I am the one that’s always in the wrong. But I’m still the one bleeding for your amusement.

We bleed, we give up, then we rise again. It’s not easy being who everyone wants me to be. It’s not easy pretending that everything is fine. I am not fine, I am not even close to being okay. Some days are harder and some days just disappear.  I would have bled myself dry if that would make everyone happy. But I can’t. Instead I watch the cuts turn to scabs and the scab heal into scars. I can’t forget what has happened because the scar is there to remind me. To remind me of the bleeding, the hurt, and the pain of words that I can’t seem to rid from my mind. One day the ghost of the words will no longer haunt me. What a joyful feeling that would be. Until then I sit with my scars and continue to heal.