PatchworkLynx

i don’t write like i used to. i used up all the feeling writing shitty sad poems when i was fifteen and still living somewhat on the edge of something. i am monotonous. i don’t love. i love too hard. i leave the fishtank light on too long to watch them swim and spend the next day diligently scrubbing algae from its walls. so this is what heaven felt like after the devil fell. living in the aftermath of something horrible without much left to feel about it. so what if i fell. so what if i burned that doesn’t matter now. did it ever. i wish i had the words to talk about it then. i have them now. but i don’t want to. this is the pale flesh after the wound. this is the scar. new skin so unyielding, unable to feel a new lover’s new touch.

dear sarah, yesterday I tried to swallow the sun. it burned me up on the inside until even my skin was hot to the touch, and I thought of you. I hope you have found better ways than me to feel lighter. heaven knows there are days where I still trade my feet for concrete blocks and try to sprint to the finish line, but at least I have stopped straying towards the riverbanks. at least I get out of bed. most days, that’s enough. but if you tell me that most days life still feels like a choice you’re making every minute, I will tell you that I understand. I have spent years trying to outrun my sadness, sipping sunlight until my vision blurs and looking up only to realize I’ve been going in circles and calling it progress. every escape I ever made is a town I can never go back to and I’m not better for it. I carry so many graveyards around inside of me, and I’ve lost count of how many bridges I’ve burned because I confused loving with leaving. take my sadness away, I don’t