[allthememoriesofyoudo]

friendship? abuse (person abuse. substance abuse. i don’t know)

you’ve become a drug

which is unfair to me

suddenly, you’re to be taken in moderation

and people give me looks for wanting you

people think they know me, call me sick, but i don’t know myself either

you’ve become a drug,

so all of a sudden, you’re never enough

the highs with you make me feel unbreakable

then you leave and i feel like i’m not real

you’ve become a drug

my friends think you’re fun whenever you’re around

they call you by your name, and i don’t know what to call you

‘cause all of a sudden you’re a stranger

but i do know your name. i just won’t say it

you look at my friends and look at me last

i knew you were looking, i didn’t look back

you’ve become a drug

the withdrawals make me sick

there’s this ache that won’t ever leave ever since the incident

i want you around but why do i want you around

i still want you but why do i want you

you’ve become a drug

sometimes i think you’re way too cool for me

and you prove it by acting like you really are

you don’t stay for too long, you never call

you make me feel good, but never at all

you’ve become a drug

when you break the law, i follow

it feels great

it feels amazing

then it ends and i just feel hollow

you’ve become a drug

we walk by the pavements at night as it rains

i always stay behind

your back, shoulders and gait

i know i’ve laid with your body in bed before, i know we’ve shared secrets

back then you weren’t a drug i could take.

but you’ve become a drug

i know you’re not good for me. sometimes you’re a monster. sometimes you just don’t care

your negligence is my rot, but what’s a good time without the lows that follow after?

it hurts. it hurts like hell, and i wish you made me feel good in other ways but this is the only way i know how to feel good

your negligence will kill me and i know it

i can’t stop remembering your warmth and how it felt good to be loved

i can’t stop thinking about those moments in your bed

i can’t stop thinking about how it ended

you’re my drug, and i don’t want you to be my drug but you are my drug, because what else could you be to me if not my drug? you’re my drug and you’re not supposed to be my drug but you are my drug and theres nothing else i could do because you’re my drug and you’re bad for me and you make me feel good and you make me feel miserable after and you constantly make me want you because youre my drug and you ruin my life and turn me into someone i’m not and you leave when you don’t need me anymore and you keep being my drug because i keep letting you be my drug even though i don’t want you but you’re still my drug because you’re a drug you’re just a drug and you’re going to kill me

[allthememoriesofyoudo]

knowing you is a nightmare

[allthememoriesofyoudo]

being with you is a FUCKING nightmare

[allthememoriesofyoudo]

the weather’s pretending

the weather does it for attention

rain keeps pouring

for days, actually—for years.

people are sick. they stopped forecasting

only flood, waters mixed with mud, and hands that reach for high places

atop of wooden beams, they get splinters

and they bleed, they keep on bleeding with the flood

rain, i see sun

coastal island, sand and a dead woman

corpse brushed up against the shore. lifeless

rain, i see sun.

it happens and it happens and it happens while other things happen

the rain never stops

it meets you everywhere, and everytime

droplets teasing your face by the windowsill, droplets slowly turning violent

am i the rain?

am i the dead body?

am i alive?

am i the fighter?

am i living?

when will it stop

the memories falter

the buildings give up

i might be the weather

or calamity born from prolongment of it

[allthememoriesofyoudo]

point is, you’re the spark and i’m the flame, i said. you only blew air through your nose, and i didn’t really have to look at you to see the smirk on your face.

i opened my mouth: “what, you think the metaphor is stupid?”

for some reason it took you a few seconds to reply. “i think i just hear it all the time,” you said.

yeah, but it’s different when it’s with us, i wanted to tell you. i didn’t, and i never will. “okay,” i said. “what about this one? you’re the light to my cigarette.”

“now you’re just turning us into our vices.”

“you got any metaphors?”

“… not right now, no.”

so the cold winds shut the both of us up. it was always like this every weekday by the rooftop; staring at the sky, light pollution blaring into your eyes like the punishment of knowing. cold winds. freezing skin. burnt fingertips that smell like smoke. maybe forever.

and i figured there was nothing to lose, so i said something stupid. “you’re honestly the gasoline that burns my nose.”

your face looked too sincere for me to think about anything. i translated the downward curve of your lips into ‘do you really think that?’ but i don’t think i’d actually ever know.

“i’m sorry,” i said.

silence. “no, i’m sorry.”

[allthememoriesofyoudo]

a saturday night weekend is peeling the skin off your fingertips and putting them on your mouth to chew. its the exhaustion from seven weekdays; tagging along and never leaving your side. its the need to stay seated, to linger longer in bed, and even tire yourself with the lack of movement. its the lack of everything, actually. saturday nights are the same nights where you feel like you wanna masturbate, but you don’t because you don’t. sa-tur-days are supposed to be good, they’re supposed to be the balancing act of the whole week, as its the only day where people say you’re relaxed at most, but you don’t because you don’t and frankly you never will. maybe saturday nights are ache and regret; maybe saturday nights are even guilt. every thought that passes you by turns into the wind that feels refreshing, then mutilates itself into mist. so there’s really nothing. you want there to be something but there’s nothing, and you want to do something, be something, but you don’t because you don’t and maybe you never will

[allthememoriesofyoudo]

theres three things that bother me. rotten pears, old laundry detergent and the ash from cigarette butts. i tell myself that it would bother me less if we took one of them out of the picture, but we can’t. we just can’t.

in my backyard lies the pile of pears. fruit flies surround them, and their curves gape with holes and maggots. i keep telling myself that i don’t even like the taste of pears; they’re bland. they taste like waking up in the morning. they taste horrible. their curves aren’t voluptuous. their skin isn’t smooth. their freckled spots are ugly. and in the back of my pillow rests a cotton shirt that smells like laundry detergent.

do you want me to open up to you and embarrass myself? fine.

i seal things in my chest every night and i state my wishes as i smell your shirt. the laundry detergent takes me back to your memory, and i find myself whispering all my sorrows into your breast. i miss your warmth, i miss your presence. i miss your curves, i miss your taste, and i miss knowing.

the folds of my sheets crash into one another and my hand buries itself in the craters of my bed. please come back. a hundred ‘night and days’ can only pass, so i ask of you, please come back.

to be faced with silence in the night follows along the ugliest truth. you’re not coming back.

you’re not coming back.

you’re not coming back.

i know of that.

so i’ll stay bothered—flicking the cigarette ash, thinking of you, and dragging it against the concrete.