Letters to my known lover.

The Forgetting

I talked to my mom today again about how happy I was . How I wasn't breaking and not an inch of sadness thrusted my breast from dusk till dawn . She mentioned you , she told me I was lying to myself . She was right . I told her about how my nails grew so long they would bend instead of break when we talk , my skin would glow in the evening sun , and how I woke up 4am to wait on your morning texts you sent .

She said I missed you , you were my epitome of happiness sadly she was right . I would take your fire , your demons over anyone else's sunshine any day . I can't blame you I told you we could never be together , I laughed in your face with ridicule when you suggested just Incase you weren't really wanting that , wanting me . I wanted it though .
The distance didn't you say you hated it  just as much as I did ? Did I ruin the aspiration that a friendship where you couldn't keep your fingers to yourself could last ? We both knew it wouldn't . Well you knew , but kept lying . I was still hopeful and kept hiding . It wasn't no picnic it was a parade of endless what the hell are we doing . Oh ! That picnic you said you never had , we can still do it once you let me back in .
Don't let her shut me out , don't .
Well yes do ...
Do shut me out .. I don't  love you anymore . I'm happy .
Right ?
I thought when I let you go when I deleted the photos and burned the hat and threw the earrings down the sink , I thought I threw away your existence your memory. I thought that was the happiness you were supposed to feel after letting go of the toxins .

I thought I was telling myself some sort of truth , finding some of truth that ...I was happy. I let the stance of if I was happy sit on my mental and I studied my essence as if my heart wasn't breaking each step , I also uttered that to my conscious without a doubt . Truly it's just a manic episode us... crazies have I'll reach my lows in a few days and will have the desire to pop pills again to get the grotesque thoughts of murdering everyone and murdering my innocence along with it .

I hate being a writer . I hate being ill . I take everything too deep , too seriously. I romanticized the horrible ideal friendship of you staying with me , my friend we both such damaged birds . I patched your wings too many times to see you fly to another's love nest . No matter how many homes you laid your eggs . I was always more beautiful though . That's what I write on paper . I only still love you because my pen soaked your presence into every sheet . Like it does my Uber exclusive beauty and popularity that reigned .
I never make myself the true golden topic of any of my art . I always end up ruining my path to self love and my path to loving you is formed . My mind has imprinted you as the honesty , the redemption
that comes along with the tragic mind . Worse than any bipolar girls diary that's hidden underneath the broken bed frames .

My illness is what keeps me from knowing the difference between the fictional world I've manifested and the scum of a land that I call reality . Im still not sure its name but I'm sure that it has ruined my goodness and my purity . The fictional palaces I grace and the apartment steps I cradle my young feet are two places I can't escape even when I'm running from them . I'm lost between the two . I don't feel real anymore . Sometimes I feel omnipotent , as if I can jump this ledge and wake up in the other lifetime . I've done it quite a lot , or maybe my characters have ? I truly can't say .

I use that world , those storylines , those beings as a escape from my unlucky reality . It helps me fight the truth I refuse to accept . The dark truth that you used me , you used me to fill in that hole ... that hole that was gaping open you needed my tainted lips to kiss it continuously until it healed with temporary affection . The same way I use my writings to heal a gaping wound with temporary affection .
As I drape my pen against the rigid paper I manifest a world that I can't run from and now a place that has became reality . I can't tell the difference between the purple sky and red grass .

My palms sparkling in gold and the veins of my arms flowing with millions of butterflies .

I seemed to have lost my trail of thought , I was focusing on you but instead I have found myself somewhere else somewhere else I think is safe . And that's good I have to learn to forget what needs to be forgotten and that in itself is the forgetting .