i finally did it - although i hate to admit it - i found validation in self-deprecation. i taped a pretty face on this book to hide the “sorrow-soaked” lines that it held inside about the three friends - and oh, did they try. but one’s gone, one’s sick, one’s the reason i write…
“i just want to lay down with you and hold you close like lovers do”. isn’t that what lovers do? i miss you so much (and i long for your touch).
sitting with my head on a windowpane feeling like nothing will ever be good again. that nothing will ever be as “good” as it “was”. i’ve heard “it gets better”, but i know it never does.
how can i believe what’s romanticized in books when i’ve really known is love based on looks? should i just leave “well enough” alone and find someone else for my heart to call home?
sometimes i like to think that you think of me, there’s been countless times i’ve left this letter where i’d knew that you would see.
i’m probably giving myself too much credit…
i know you’ve seen the letter, but i doubt you even read it.
i’ve suffered below (my heart), and i’ve suffered above (my head). i’ve suffered for show (my art), and i’ve suffered for a love that just wouldn’t grow - i felt it depart. it wasn’t apropos, it tore my life apart. my heart, my head, my art… all dead.
i wish that i could just forget: all the fucks that i regret. waking up in a cold sweat. the weight of unpaid debt.
i’ve walked through the rains, lived the aches and pains, but the feeling never wanes that life is losses, never gains.