the color of low self esteem
what i never
learned
from my mother
was that
just because someone desires you
does
not mean they value you.
desire is the kind of thing that
eats you
and
leaves you starving.
#205
I practice our conversations every night in my head. I tell you this is it, I’m tired of reminding you that I exist. I wait for you to say the words, all the ones that I want to hear (at this point, they’d be nearly anything). But instead, every night, you stand silent.
You are flowers in my stomach.
Cutting me open nightly, blooming through the cracks of the ribs.
I only want to be the sun for you.
—Elke River (via khalu)
(Source: hellanne, via lettersiwillnotsend)
#203
In your sleeping-embrace, I rolled over, onto my back, and turned to face you. In the creeping morning light, in a room of the house that you grew up in (but not your room, you outgrew that bed shortly after I met you), I reached across and held one side of your bearded face.
“Grant,” I half-whispered.
You opened your eyes and shut them again. With one arm you pulled me in, dragging me from my spot on the bed, squeezing me next to you. You kissed my cheek.
This is my favorite memory of you. This was the first of the countdown, when we had one month left, before we ever confessed. This was the first time that I was sure, even if only for the day.
#202
I stayed up
two hours longer
trying to wrap my head
around
this.
This was going to be
it.
But,
for once,
you asked me
(after all those months of wishing you would)
“Please.
Stay.”
#201
In between June, I fell softly into you
to come out in March a headwind.
Autumn passed quietly, in retrospect,
and you kept yourself amongst the country
and the trees which are yours.
Winter swallowed us whole and gave no choice
but to let go; I fought but choked
on a gale force that wished me silent.
April once loomed with the threat
to send me a hole of you,
and May kept it a promise.
i feel at peace with you but i
still think about the taste
in the back of my throat;
the wave of nothing
incapacitating me for
what felt like years.
i still think you’re everything
(via who-cares-so-what)
#12
To each one who’s done me wrong:
bring me back the piece of myself.
