“It’s been 92 days since you left. I want to tell you and tell everyone and most importantly tell myself that things have gotten better and that things are alright now. That I’m alright now. I’m waking up and I’m letting the sun warm my hands and my soul is free and my heart beats properly and the world is spinning just fine. I can smell flowers and I can hear laughter and enjoy the sound of the wind and the trees are big and they are beautiful and I am beautiful. But that isn’t the truth. Winter is closing in and my hands are stinging from the cold and I don’t know where the sun is but it isn’t shining through my window like it used to. I can’t take in a full breath and no I don’t think things are going okay, or alright, or just fine, or any other words that are relevant. Relevant is me slamming my fist against the wall and screaming. It’s the sound you hear when it is so quiet that noise seems to not be able to exist anymore. It’s the feeling of a slamming door in your face, of a sad child, of a lost animal, of a heart hitting the floor and smashing like a glass. And didn’t you know this would hurt? I woke up today and I couldn’t seem to get out of bed and I couldn’t feel the soft sheets around me, and I couldn’t open my fucking eyes to see the beauty in anything. But, are you happy? I hope so. And I hope you feel the warmth of the sun whether it’s there or not. I hope you feel love and kindness and I hope you never know a pain that swallows you whole and bury’s you beneath the ground. I want you to know that I loved you, that I love you, that I will probably love you again tomorrow, and the week after, and for god knows how long after that. And I want you to know that I know you don’t love me. And it hurts. It stings. It doesn’t allow me any more breaths. It doesn’t show me compassion. It doesn’t want me to live. I don’t want me to live. If you think this is poetry; you’re wrong. This is a heartbreak. This is your lungs giving out. This is your mother telling you that you are not beautiful. Your father not understanding. Your mind telling you despite any good left in your world, you are not going to make it. This is your heart fighting your brain, and this is you collapsed on the floor, or wherever you fell and cannot get up. This is you writing down words that strangers read on the internet for no known reason. And this is you saying goodbye. This is you giving into the pain and the suffering, and letting go. This is not a poem. This is me trying to stop missing you. This is me trying to end something that I never wanted to stop. This is me trying to remember your voice, although maybe it’s good that I don’t. This is me thinking of your hands, your lips, and oh god your eyes. This is me missing you. But more importantly, this is me missing myself. I hope I come back soon. I need to come back soon.”
— This is not a poem, this is a letter I could never send to you. (via fucking-lovely)
