and once you loved the inkwords, with all your /twist/ed/ little heart—
you thought they were so (broken)beautiful but
they aren’t, they aren’t beautiful and they neverwillbe
(just like you were never beautiful (enough for them))
and (i guess) you just loved those perfectlittleletters too.fucking.much
(the same way you loved him just a little too much)
because you breathed them (inhaleandexhale all the pretty-black-notions)
but now they make you sick, now it hurts
to breathe, and now there’s always something hurting (you can’t recall the feeling
of going to sleep with a light heart) and you’re too offbalance to make it right
again, even if
you could remember
how—
how to breathe—how to sleep—how
to
be.