it's a never ending cycle

I want someone to tell me that I wasn't just a sick bitch with an attitude of a child, I just want someone to tell me that I'm capable of being loved. Something tells me that it's over and it's finally ending. There's this knot in my throat that wouldn't dissapear, there's chains in my legs and arms and I can't move.

I try to move my body but it's too far down in this ocean.

And for some reason I can't breathe.

It begins quietly. So quietly I always mistake it for affection.

Not loud. Not cinematic. Not the kind that announces itself with certainty or warmth. This one slips in through the cracks, settles in your chest, and builds a home out of your ribs. It tells you that people are everything. That their presence is oxygen. That without them, you are something unfinished, something unlivable. And so I hold on like a pup.

Too tightly, perhaps. But how could I not, when every memory I carry feels like proof that things disappear? That people leave, or worse. They stay and still manage not to see you. I learned early on what it means to speak and not be heard, to reach and not be met halfway. 

I learned how to shrink my needs into something small enough not to inconvenience anyone. Something ignorable. Something safe.

And I just hope this will be the last time.

butiwakeup&witnessithappeninganyway