I am a whisper, a cold glance when you turn your back;
And it is so hard not to crawl into old ways, an old addiction—
The pages were written, ink scrawled & memories sprawled like leftover ideas; I wrote the chapters, over & over, night after night, my head in a spin, verbiage surfacing only at the highest of heights.
There is something about the way you opened me, up & up & up, a fever rising in below zero temperature—black on white, white on white, white on black—it didn’t make a damned bit of difference as long as I saw stars for hours, for days, a realm of washed out color, washed out light; washed my eyes out with soap & for ten seconds, it always felt good. Just like you always felt so good for ten hours, before the after effect, before the writhing beneath my skin, before the tears & the shame & the fuck you for making me feel things I never want to forget;
(and for making me feel things I never want to remember.)
~kissedbysadness
