6.03.02
we haven’t spoken for some time now and i wonder why i haven’t tried to find you. maybe i need to be solitary for a change, locked in a routine that not even you can make chaotic. and i keep breathing in and out. in and out. slowly. smoking in my pink princess bed in thirty-degree weather with the windows open. I think i see your face in my menthol exhale. and i’ve decided death by slow deterioration is better than dying by wanting and not having. whoever said words can’t hurt you obviously wasn’t me because even the absence of our silence is stinging my skin when you’re not around. and w ask myself where i went wrong in all this, when did conversations turn to something more valuable than retaining my own thoughts? and how did your eyes become printed in my mind’s image? this, like everything, is an excuse to think of you. my hand, scribbling words in a book of butterflies eerily similar to a favorite cure song that i sing alone in the morning. he told me reality is ruining my dreams. when will i learn this is reality and i can only accept what can’t survive outside of dreaming? there is only me. tonight you told me that you read my poem before every show you play. and it scares me to know that you think of me though you are changing to the monster i created on a page. but i still desire you, through the bad and the good times, even though they are getting fewer and fewer as more time passes. your sarcasm, the bitterness in your tone, frightens me into a place where i’m still trembling under your pixilated gaze.