This is what the inside of my head looks like...
i said i miss you,
say it back.
you said you loved me;
but i didn’t say it back.
but i felt it back.
i just couldn’t say it back.
i just couldn’t write it back.
blocked me.
got me blocked.
got me talking to myself.
got me writing to myself.
got me wishing i was someone else.
got me wishing you weren’t with someone else.
you said you missed me,
wished you didn’t say back.
now i gotta pretend that i don’t feel it back.
{in my feelings and with my pen tonight. if i keep sipping on this dark liquor the ink might bleed through the pages. & that’s blood on my hands that i cant wipe off. }
tell me, where along the way did we get so comfortable with being uncomfortable.
when did we accept the unacceptable?
i don’t know.
it’s easier to bounce my thoughts off the walls than over your head.
& there i go again…. adding insult to injury.
it pains me ….. to use the pen that way… but it’s the only way i know to these days.
a lot of pain lives amongst these pages.
all the pain that lives amongst these pages…..
that’s why i don’t find myself amongst the pages.
no….. you won’t find me in these pages, anymore
loving you is easy…… loving myself, not so much.
i sip in and it spills out.
call me out on my dishonesty if i tell you that i’m happy with the bed i’ve made.
call me out if i tell you that i haven’t been in bed with the enemy..
because i’ve lied a thousand times.
what difference does it make if i tell a lie when you know the truth?
why does my heart have to be broken for you to want to listen to me?
why do i have to hurt for you to want to
read me?
why? why do i find pleasure in the pain ?
maybe because that’s the only place i feel your love.
thats the only fucking place i’ve felt your love.