i want back to a time when i could
write without thinking of stanzas and metaphors
and whether i should use capitals. when i
didn't think of things like letting this much of me out and no more, and
a certain slant of light drawing people's eyes to my wrists.
i don't know when i stopped playing pathetic and started living it;
when i exchanged my melancholic nostalgia for tasting the
edges of a world just that little bit more
fantastical and outrageous than my own.

(note: keep your story straight if they question you.)

i keep searching for imperfection in a world that doesn't allow it,
and every fall i choose salvation when it's destruction
i'm craving – glitter and techno music and nights spilling like gasoline,
and at two am i'm still singing, scribbling lone words
(fuckcheshirequeercrash&burn)
on my hands in black marker.

(i remember her eyes on me. they were always somewhere between curious and
disinterested, always just another way to bleed.)

i'm not good at things like
studying,
or social interactions,
or meeting expectations.
after three years of failing to describe a feeling i don't remember
what it's like to write without having to force the words out.
it's not so much failing as never really trying to begin with.

me and my fucking icarus complex –
(i know it hurts to burn)
– it ought to be more,
but isn't.

a/n: i hate practically everything i've ever posted on here, so i took most of it down. instead of writing to try to keep up some facade i'm bleeding ink on paper (or words in a document, whichever). it's been...fuck, has it really been two years? since i've been on this site. guess i'm back, lovelies. (a certain slant of light is of course emily dickinson.)