as the trees go through their annual metamorphosis,
I form another internal skin,
purging my existence of every trace of you that i can
and just like the skin of the trees,
i will make sure he
leaves.

you've never truly cried until
it becomes difficult for you to breathe,
and crying becomes so
normal,
it's now part of your daily routine
that is, if you can drag yourself out of the prison that is your bed,
to even form a "normal routine"
your body is empty and never seems to be filled
you are emptiness, a neverending pit,
and you wish that
it could just be
*******
different

after i was told about the dangers of cadmium,
i never really used oil paints,
or acrylic;
i'm more of a watercolor girl myself.
~but if i'm honest, i’m not really much of a painter in the first place

every time i imagine your name
or your face,
or any daydreamt aspect of you
interacting with me,
instead of your name,
i will think,
"for what?"
and i think,
it's better this way,
~for both our sakes

i want to stand in torrential storms and scream
until my lungs become ash and the rain has eroded the world around me
~who wants to join?

there was
one version
of you
who wanted
a version of me;
it was only ever
in moments
like the one where
you let me invade your
dreams,
the same way you wriggled your way deep into
my subconscious thoughts. there was
one version of you
who wanted a version of me
~but not the way that i wanted you to~

was it how you made me laugh,
or how that laughter decimated
my sense of uncertainty
and lulled me into a temporary constant,
where,
in my ignorance,
a real version of me
fell into a faux version of you.