You are not you.
What happened to sadness and coffee and enough love that your heart was distended to your knees? What happened to your bird-in-flight mouth, what happened to make your cheeks hollow and sharp like a meth addict, what happened to make you swallow pill after pill of x or pump your veins with ketamine, are you really that fucking empty? Are you really that fucking lonely?
You used to be the goddamn moon and stars and sky and birds–now everywhere I look, anyone can look like you. Anyone can be you. You’re not special anymore. There’s no beauty in that. God, you burn my blood. You’re so fucking scared and you hide behind this façade of chemicals just to keep from screaming.
I don't care how gorgeous you might be, you are not you: shut the hell up. Break my fingers. Sew me shut; I'm tired of being torn so wide open, even the wind hurts. Skinless boy, let me go, let me go, let me go—I don’t love you anymore.
You get me bleeding without blood. If I had known where you were headed, I would’ve stolen the road right out from under you.
It burns my belly how I call no one beautiful—it feels like your name, turning pirouettes in the tangles of my stomach.
I cringe at its every remembrance: you know I will never mean it when I say I don’t love you anymore.
I wonder what you’ve broken—fine china, a mirror, a heart, a bone—but I don’t want you dead, even if you want you dead. You just don’t want to be alone and I wish I could be holding you in the crooks of my elbows and letting you cry and crying with you.
Because you are too beautiful to drug yourself up every night just so you aren’t lonely.
YOU ARE READING
Stealing Pulse
Teen FictionThis is a story about me. My life as I see it. I tell it in the first person and it is written like a diary entry, only more intimate. I don't hold anything back, so prepare yourself for the raw, uncensored, and compassionate story of what its like...
