i am a mess. i am a fucking mess and i have no idea how to survive without tripping over the bones in my feet, my ankles. my kneecaps are seconds away from popping out of place and it’s a miracle i am ever able to breathe on my own. some days are worse than others. some days i want to pick at my skin, my fingernails; some days i want to tear myself up until i bleed, and i do not know how to turn this—any of this—into poetry.
i do not know how to turn you into poetry.
the thing about loving you is that i have no idea what the fuck i’m doing. you’re pretty, see, and i am more or less terrified of pretty things i have no business touching. but you’re the type of boy i’d like to share my twin-size bed with, hide beneath the sheets and listen to the thunder crack the universe in half. you have the type of eyes i’d like to drown in, blue upon blue upon blue like the seaside speckled with tiny grains of sand (sometimes i wonder if they’d turn into hourglasses the moment i tip you over, counting down the time we have left to exist together in our human bodies. i’d like to be a bird, just so you know, that way i can fly anywhere you wander and forget that i have ever felt so trapped i wanted to rip my fucking hair out).
i try to see you strictly in black and white, try to ignore the shades and shades of grey in-between but my eyes are flooded by the red of bloody fingernails, broken blood vessels. we are on opposite sides of a spectrum the size of your wingspan and the truth is: i am too sick and too messy and too miserable to ever love you the way you deserve to be loved.
i am still a mess and you are still so beautiful, it’s killing me.
…
[a/n: this sounds super like…frustrated and I guess it is and idk about it but im just so tired and I love you guys a lot, sorry it took a while for this one]
