I think it’s you that I keep writing about but maybe it’s her. It’s bad that I can’t even tell anymore. Getting my heart broken again just reminds me of the first time and I just live in a high speed nostalgic blur.
People tell me my words are beautiful, maybe because they’re written for you. They don’t know though that when I stare at this blank fucking page all I feel is rage and crushing heartbreak. These words spill from my fingers but it’s still nothing close to what I feel.
I wish actions could be translated into words because I would write me smashing my fist into a wall because I saw you with her or I would write credit cards and rolled up bank notes and pupils the size of of moons as I try to forget you for the tenth time that day. I would write me standing in the scalding hot shower trying to remember the exact moment where you weren’t mine anymore. I would write how my eyes burn as I lie there staring at the ceiling again because staying up late was only fun when your head was on my chest and I couldn’t bear to be without you for a second.
If actions could be translated into words that’s what would fill my pages. I guess I just wish you were still around, okay?