The Nights That Never Twinkled

For those who look to the sky for clarity but are met with nothing but emptiness

[starlesssuggestions]

“It is not the loneliest of nights when I miss you most, when my hand lingers to the place in this king sized graveyard that was once your home. Nor on the worst of days when I am screaming your name into the void, begging for an answer. Nor the nights I wake up bloody and bruised, wishing you were here so I could fit my body into yours like a worn down puzzle piece.

No, it is the moments of joy I feel. When a smile passes my lips and I look to you and find nothing but the all too familiar of your ghost, waiting to remind yet again what I have lost.”

-and I am forever haunted

[heavensghost]

I feel like I have no safe place inside my head to escape to anymore

[missinyouiskillingme]

They won’t understand until you leave. The minute you walk away you’ll become ‘the best they’ve ever had.’ It’s crazy how loss triggers love.

— Alex Elle

[missinyouiskillingme]

It’s crazy how loss triggers love.

[starlesssuggestions]

It doesn’t matter how long they’re gone, it doesn’t matter if you’ve already moved on. It always hurts

[starlesssuggestions]

“There was no grace of god or blessings to be had on this night, nor works of the devils or sins to be possessed within me. No, this is was something horrible, something deep, something only a truly evil creature could create- this something I felt. This feeling, was purely human.”

-And that, is the worst way evil comes

[latelycravingmore]

I think the worst part of having a mental health issue is that you can’t explain how you feel and why you feel that way. Your mood comes in waves. One minute you’re fine and the next you’re not. You constantly feel like you’re being a burden or ignored. The slightest change in someone’s constancy or tone of voice and you feel as if they’re done with you. You need reassurance constantly. A bit of distance or space could throw you off completely even though it’s actually normal to the rest of the world. And the second someone stops doing something that you’re used to, or saying something that they used to is the minute you think they’re leaving. You can’t explain to them or anyone why you feel the way you feel and you only feel bad for feeling the way you do because you know it’s your fault. It’s your burden and problem. And no matter how hard you try to talk about it, no one ever really gets it.

[starlesssuggestions]

Scared to kiss, scared to touch, scared to say I love you, scared it’s too much. When will I learn that my love will never be enough?

I think you know you’re too good for me now

[starlesssuggestions]

Wish there was a negative amount of space between us instead of all this negative space between us, missing out on all the trust, when did we forget to love, forget to lust? These moments as you yell and tears stream down my face I realize I am nothing but something to hold a place. My words are either too little or too much, never the right thing said, or maybe I'm just never enough. I love you, I love you, I love you, but what's love even mean with all we're going through? What's our love if it's not what it was before? Do you even really love me anymore? I still think about you all the time, but mostly now I wonder if I'm even on your mind. I know I'll give you all the love I have to give, but when it runs dry, I know that'll be our end

I thought we were the lucky ones

[starlesssuggestions]

I am undeserving of love at best

[starlesssuggestions]

I can feel your breath still linger on my neck, waist digger deeper into mine as I pull you harder, faster, closer. Trembles leave your mouth so weakly, so soft. I leave a heart shaped bruise on your neck to remind you of my heart that you hold in your hands. Yet you still seem so far. Maybe these moments will never be enough, maybe I’ll never be what you need, maybe there’s another world where it works out for you and me. But I fear that time is not here, not now. I fear our time is running out. But for now, I will pull you harder, faster, closer. Hoping to hear those sweet little noises once last time

The farther we go the farther away you feel

[starlesssuggestions]

In these quiet nights as the rain pours down outside and your player skips, skips, skips on repeat for hours; you lie motionless and realize perhaps maybe you were meant to only love, and not be loved in return. Maybe you are the healer and not the one to be healed and maybe, maybe you can find peace with this one day. One day; but for now your heart skips, skips, skips on repeat as you think of eternity alone, unloved, untouched. The rain pours down and down and you are left feeling the weight of the heavens pour down on you. This is how you heal, this is how you grow. Not in the gentle hands of another but through fire and ice, fury and rage escaping from your chest as you fight for someone new, someone better. You are the healer, and you will be the healed. And one day, maybe you will find peace with this

-One Day (via @starlesssuggestions)

[starlesssuggestions]

May god bless the wicked in their time of need, as they say their final goodbyes into the night. He has given up, you have won.

[starlesssuggestions]

Sometimes there are things best left unsaid, for there are no answers, no solutions, so the one you settle for is to suffer in silence. Words are better left unsaid in the way people are better off left unloved, untouched, uncared for, unnoticed. For there is no solution to these words, these feelings, and the arguments that wage war inside your own head happen without a second person there, best leave these words unsaid, best leave these feeling untouched upon, best leave myself, unloved.

and the silence fills the gaps 

[starlesssuggestions]

I think about dying so much it's become just another possibility of the day now. I'll wake up, stop for coffee, maybe stop by to see my aunt at the shop down the street or check out that new Thai place on main or maybe I'll go home and hang myself and save myself the trouble. A secondhand thought with no remorse or recall on them anymore, I have become just another walking corpse in the sea of thousands that I see everyday and I think that nothing could feel more lonely than standing in these crowds of people, isolated. So many a bottle of pills won't make my parents proud but nothing else did anyway so it's at least worth a shot. A dead kid is a sob story but a failed one is a regret and maybe the second hand back door though of the gun hidden under the basement sink would at least give my parents a reason to say they tried and not an excuse to say they failed. Maybe one day they'll visit my grave and tell me they love me instead of walking into my room and telling me they hate me and maybe then I will have actually meant something to them, maybe. Maybe. And maybe life has just become too much to bear without that second hand back door option thats constantly stored in the back of your head just in case, ya know? and this doesn't sound pretty and poetic and beautiful because nothing about this is pretty, or poetic, or beautiful, and nothing about this is suppose to be because I have been broken so long that I don't remember what the original piece looked like and I'm scared I'll never see it again. I'm scared that "broken" is all I'll ever be and I'm not sure where I stop and the sadness begins or if there is no line anymore and nothing about that is pretty, or poetic, or beautiful. The second hand back door option burning in the back of your head is not pretty, poetic, or beautiful. I, am not pretty, poetic, or beautiful, and nothing about that, or this, or us, will ever change

a spoken word from a voice too shaky to speak

[thegoodvybe]

[starlesssuggestions]

I wait by the counter, Rarely ever cleaned these days just used over and over and over Without him, I have no purpose I guess that’s something we have in common, you and I He pays little to no attention of the cracks we have on our bodies Or the way that we don’t shine like we used to But he notices when I am left hollow He left you empty by keeping me full, He drains you in the last sip he drains me and I shiver And I shake And I rattle on the table as his voice chases you around the house And his footsteps march towards you and your screams create another crack in my soul I’m sorry. I’m so sorry. I have turned him into this monster of a man that you not intention of loving You lay before him and neither of us are untouched But the bruises on your body do not match the gentle way he holds mine I’m sorry. I’m so sorry. You wake up in the morning and i’m sitting right there in the hospital bed next to you Pieces of me, smashed into your skull that the doctors have removed The doctors tell you that the bruises on your body do match the gentle way he holds you Pieces of me were lost in you, pieces of you lost in him, Neither of us will ever be whole again But he comes in and he tells you I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.

Whisky Glass

[starlesssuggestions]

Writing never comes as easily as it used to. "I swear" people would say, "you've just got poems bursting through your veins." I think I've cut open a few too many now a days searching for words that never came. Writing doesn't come as easily as it used to, most things don't. Small tasks exhaust me beyond belief and the thought of writing alone makes me wonder wonder how I was ever so naive to call myself a writer, a storyteller, a poet. I had always loved poetry, how something so broken could sound so beautiful and how such a broken thing made themselves sound beautiful, but poetry is just as beautiful as silky arms laced with dripping red ribbon and crystal clear oceans just waiting to drown you no, poetry is not beautiful. It is a seductive art form leaving you romancing the scars you've created and dousing the flames of the memories you ought to burn just because a sonnet makes the crowd snap does not mean you should let your heart do the same. Writing, is not east anymore. For I am aware of the sick nature my mind has twisted this once beautiful thing into. Writing, it seems, has become one of the hardest things of all

Thoughts from a former writer