Contelysia

What do I have to go on? Is it the thousands of words of love that echo in every corner of my heart when I remember you? Or is it how those echoes don't pierce and shatter each muscle? Is it the shadow of your touch across my skin? Or is it the way I feel nothing of it? Where do I go now? If not your arms when I'm frightened of the dark, Do I seek mine in this dread? If I don't run to you... To whom do I run? What do I feel? Do I miss you, hate you, love you, call for you all at the same time? Yes. Every fibre of my being wrestles to hold onto you, While my heart — already beaten down in love — lets you go like just another yesterday. How could you be just another yesterday? Three-hundred and fifty nine days that I would never cry for? How could the remembrance of you not rip me apart? How does seeing your face be just another event of my day? Am I content with you losing me? Will I be okay with losing you? I laugh at my insincerity. Of course , if you ask me to— I'll c...

break my heart. break my heart and shatter my expectations leave me wondering about all the things I did wrong, leave me wondering if I could've done it better. maybe, if I dressed your wounds with my blood, carved a cross onto my chest that binds my faith to you — my soul would still be in one piece, my heart still unbroken. cross the stars. the stars of us that glance down from the night sky. the stars that spin around each other, desperate not to touch. desperate to never feel the spark that just sits between them. for once, cross them. For I am the force that keeps them together, You are the repulsion that pushes them apart. I am the getaway town you rush to, And you're still my home. mend my heart. I beg you — mend my heart like you always do. keep me close enough, keep me wondering if I'll, one day, be good enough. maybe, if it all comes to an end,  if all the doors shut in my face and leave me no escape, I'll fix my own heart that you'll always leave broken. ...

If I show you all my demons, and we dive into the deep end, Would we crash and burn like every time before? Isn't vulnerability a virtue?  The love that reaches into my chest and swirls around my heart when I open up, the comfort that radiates from my limbs when I rest my head on your shoulder, and the way I would never trade it for anything else. I laugh and dance and sing with all my heart when I am with you. I feel at home, comfortable, and myself. I don't feel like a sword hangs above my head, waiting to shatter me into pieces the moment I am too much or too little. You say that I'm enough. All of you say that I am perfect as I am, as I do the same for you. Imagine, if I wasn't vulnerable. My smile would be caged behind a cyclone of reticence and emotions that make no sense to a person who wants to love. My laugh would be a giggle, ashamed to be freed into the dark and scary world. My voice wouldn't reach its highest octaves to sing with you, and I definitely wo...

the moon burns to an ochre ash, unflinchingly obvious: unafraid and scintillating. with stolen heartbeats, it glows brighter, with remnants of lost loves, it turns deeper — yet, if the moon knew of my love, perhaps, it would appear as seraphic to you as it does to me, perhaps then, the glory of our love wouldn't be of ruin; it would become the glory of peace. the glory of bliss.

My fingers typed relentlessly, stopping at no word, pausing at no emotion. It was real. It was palpable as I wrote my heart out, my words swirling and splaying into the emotions I never could express well. I never knew what to say. I never knew how to tell you what I felt. Sad. Overwhelmed. Loved. Insecure. Hurt. Happy. How did I feel? I never knew unless I started to write. And when I did, the words would tell me how I felt. "Why do you love to write?" he asked me, my eyes focused on my diary as my hand wrote in cursive.  "Writing never hurt me," I murmured softly, and he tipped my chin with his hands, looking into my eyes, "How is it to love without being threatened to be hurt by your mind?" I remained silent, my eyes flicking back to the page, "It helps me breathe," I replied, smiling softly. I wish I knew what to say when I loved. I wish I could express how much words mean to me without writing them down. They are my story. They are who I am....

My mother always told me to keep myself first. To keep my head up high- no matter what makes me feel otherwise. To smile in the face of trouble, to cry when I feel like it, to demand when I needed to, to request when I wanted to, but never beg. Never lower who I was for someone who wouldn't care about me as I did about them. In silence, I lose myself. In solitude, I forget everything, and I reach for someone. Someone to talk to. Perhaps, picking the phone up. Perhaps, dialing your number or dropping a text after you've left me on seen for eight hours.  Keep my head up high. You don't need me as I need you. You could care less while I give my whole world to you. My time, my space, my mind, my soul - while you couldn't spare a minute of your "forgiveness": forgiveness for something I did that was never wrong. Forgiveness for something that only gave you a chip more of who I am. Maybe you smile as I apologize. Maybe you laugh, pointing a metaphorical finger at me...

 He pulls me by my hand, making me stand on my wobbly feet.  "Come with me," he says, tightening his grip on my left hand. Perhaps, to the bystander, that grip was firm. Firmer than comfortable, but that grip anchored me. Reminded me of who I was and who I wanted to be.  Free. I want to be free.  I respond with the same fervor, pulling him towards me and wrapping my arms around his neck, the envelope fluttering from the movement. His encircle my waist, his voice echoing in my ears, "I want you to go with me," he says softly, his face buried in the crook of my neck. I shake my head, tears almost building up in my eyes as I fight my emotions. It was true. I want to go, maybe be with him. His voice calms me, his presence fills me with joy, his words bring me ecstasy, and his touch grounds me: but he was not who I wanted to be. He means captivity. I want to be free. "I-" my words begin without tallying with my mind, making him step back and look at me. The met...