“People are afraid of themselves, of their own reality; their feelings most of all. People talk about how great love is, but that’s bullshit. Love hurts. Feelings are disturbing. People are taught that pain is evil and dangerous. How can they deal with love if they’re afraid to feel? Pain is meant to wake us up. People try to hide their pain. But they’re wrong. Pain is something to carry, like a radio. You feel your strength in the experience of pain. It’s all in how you carry it. That’s what matters. Pain is a feeling. Your feelings are a part of you. Your own reality. If you feel ashamed of them, and hide them, you’re letting society destroy your reality. You should stand up for your right to feel your pain.”—Jim Morrison (via kushandwizdom)
December is the coldest month. I am starting to see why.
When you left, you took everything, and you were everything, and everything you left behind smelled like you. It is so dark.
I ran away from home.
The city smoke chokes my lungs. I no longer like what I’ve become.
Who knew you could still feel like drowning even when you were out of the water?
We sampled memories from your collarbone. I was trying to figure myself out. I was trying to love the moon.
We are told to hate cliches. Watching the sunrise was cliche, and so was meeting a mysterious stranger. He kissed me in my bedroom. He held my arms to stop the trembling. He turned me into a cliche.
It is not so dark anymore. I walked out the door smiling to myself.
My tongue has learned to forget you. I speak in his language instead. (I found someone else)
Hope crawled in my corpse. You taught me how to inhale before stealing my breath away.
I didn’t know how to swim in water. So I swam bedsheets instead. It is hard to forget you in the morning. When they leave and I am naked, without a blanket to hide under in.
Got high and we painted the ocean until it kissed the sky. Stayed up the entire night, stayed up the entire morning.
It isn’t so bad. Being alive.
My best friend told me not to play with fire. I got flames tattooed on the back of my hand and burned myself to the ground.
I am not Helen of Troy. But this a war story. It isn’t romantic. I am devastating only myself.
Dusk swallowed nostalgia and impregnated my limbs. Write for better days to come.
December is still the loneliest month. But I have learned to run with wolves. I am leaving you behind. I am finally letting him go.
Sunburn peeling. Claw marks bleeding. Human skin has stories etched into every scar. They will heal. I am healing. What a beautiful battle I’ve become.
Woke up and it no longer hurts, saying your name.