Rotting Romantically

I collect sad songs and forgettable memories. Most likely crying about something beautiful.

[dyingonmyownterms]

I have so much to say and no one to listen.

R.R

[irisili0]

Sometimes I wonder if I’ll ever be loved the way I love—the way I obsess, the way I care, the way I look at them, the way I wonder, the way I almost worship.

[dyingonmyownterms]

apology without change is manipulation,

love is just another form of humiliation.

the movies lied with pretty fabrications,

where the man buys flowers and she has no complications.

where sorry means something,

where actions match the words.

where love isn’t a weapon

and kindness isn’t performative and rehearsed.

I used to pause on those scenes,

rewind them just to feel.

mistaking fiction for what love means-

confusing beautiful with real.

now I watch them differently.

I see the cuts, the scripts, the light.

nobody loves that effortlessly.

nobody stays without a fight.

and maybe that’s the cruelest trick-

to grow up fed on golden lies.

to fall for every practiced flick

of someone’s well rehearsed disguise.

apology without change is manipulation.

I know that now.

I just wish someone had told me

before I learned it from you.

R.R

[dyingonmyownterms]

this isn’t the life I was promised.

grey skies, rude people, war.

I didn’t dream to work in an office,

or imagine the internet was filled with gore.

I thought humanity was loving and generous.

I thought people meant what they said.

I thought the world was enormous

with room enough for me to spread.

I thought kindness was the default.

I thought goodness was the rule.

now I can’t tell who’s at fault -

the world, or me, for being such a fool.

somewhere there’s a child

who still believes it’s good out there.

unbothered and unriled,

convinced that people care.

I used to be her.

I’m not sure when she left.

the world didn’t murder her -

it just slowly ran her out of breath.

and still I wake up every morning.

and still I look for something true.

maybe that’s its own kind of warning -

or maybe it’s the bravest thing I do.

R.R

[dyingonmyownterms]

I swore I’d never touch alcohol. it ruined my father and my mother, even my brother.

yet here I lay with my hand around a bottle

and I understand them now.

that’s the part that scares me.

how the bottle makes a vow

to hold you when things get heavy.

how it doesn’t ask questions.

how it numbs before it burns.

how it offers all the answers

to everything you never learned.

I swore I was different.

I swore I’d seen enough.

but grief makes you indifferent

to the things you swore you’d never touch.

so here I am, my father’s daughter.

here I am, my mother’s child.

standing in the same dark water

that swallowed them a while.

I put the bottle down.

or maybe I don’t.

either way I’ve found

I’m more like them than I thought.

R.R

[dyingonmyownterms]

My favorite weather is the rain.

It sounds cliche but it’s true.

It hides my pain,

the wind feels cool.

I say I’m okay

yet we both feel like fools

when the words stop halfway

our eyes are full.

So I look away

the way I always do

find something else to say

anything but you.

And the rain keeps falling

like it knows what I won’t speak

like it’s been waiting

for the version of me that’s weak.

Maybe that’s why I love it.

It cries so I don’t have to.

R.R

[dyingonmyownterms]

how could I have fallen when I was scared.

how could I have felt something so deeply when I was raised on suppression.

how could I have experienced love when I felt undeserving.

maybe that’s exactly why it hurt so much.

it was the first real thing I ever let myself have.

R.R

[dyingonmyownterms]

R.R