tales of adaptability, masochistic overindulgence, and an outplayed concept of love that cant escape me (06/04/19)

I'm rly intrigued by this feature but idk what to post, here's something I wrote when I was 18 :p

he takes the women he loves and makes them small enough to fit in his pocket, letting them learn to live with little more than lint as a makeshift blanket. tell me that isn’t what love is; persecution, perpetuation, suspension. repetitive un-endings and waiting. the truth lies herein, somewhere in between letters, in between sighs. let me see you up close, unbuttoned, deconstructed. i want to look at you; the core of you.

i think i’m starting to understand... i’m a reminder of good things gone bad. a signifier of endings. me is coated behind them, me is seen mostly in glimpses. it means ourselves standing in the doorways barely letting the light get through. i think about her more often than i’d ever admit aloud and i despise myself all the same because of it. why is she still here? why do i see her when i close my eyes at night? i imagine the way she moves, the way she laughs, the way she loves. and i envy it. maybe i am in the wrong body. maybe i am wrong. 

so, at what point does loneliness make the body uninhabitable? if only i could divide myself into and love the other me wholly. it’s almost like feeling the physical proof of myself around others makes me want to dissipate. it’s too much of a statement, there’s too much space being occupied by me.