I can't sleep
Everytime I remember your words
They snap and recoil
And hurt me awake
Next time when someone
Promises me forever
I'll just smile
Look them in the eyes and ask
How long is forever to you.

I've never had faith in the human race,
I've stayed up so many late nights in heated debates,
Arguing about the meaning of life.
My thoughts. There isn't one.
That's the reason I come so close every time I try,
The knife in my room pressed to my skin,
I try but don't have the strength to drag it.
I don't want it to be superficial, if I make the cut there's no going back,
But my will is softer than my tissue.

I wish I believed in God,
I wish he could give my life meaning,
Because I need a miracle to make it out this year.
Even if he exists and is looking down on me now,
Even if everyone I knew is rooting for me from above,
I don't deserve my spot there.

The only thing that keeps me going,
Is that somewhere out there, there's a name written in the stars
And I hope it's yours.

The only thing keeping a hopeless romantic alive.
Love.

I'm a firm believer that you never truly stop loving your first  true love. 

My first true love, she was beautiful. 

She was beautiful after she had danced under the stars and the moon, finally letting herself be free. 

She was beautiful with wind blown hair and sparkling,
mirth filled eyes as we laughed at some joke. 

She was beautiful in the way she walked,
with the sassy swing of her hips. 

She was beautiful in the way she talked,
the sound of her voice was like music to my ears. 

She was beautiful in the way she smiled, the genuine smile that she barely showed anyone,
the one that she said only I ever noticed wasn't forced. 

She was beautiful in the way she laughed,
that hearty laugh that made me so happy. 

She was beautiful in the way she cared for everyone important to her, even if it meant sacrificing her own happiness. 

She was beautiful in the way she cried, because when she cried in my arms,
it meant she trusted me enough to see her like that. 

She was beautiful in the way she smelled, her scent was sweet, something I could only describe as the source of my peace. 

She was beautiful, in the way she loved wholeheartedly,
even if I never truly noticed it for my own foolishness. 

And she is beautiful as she tries to fight the illness that threatens to take her life, even if the only reason she decided to live, was for others.




©Words of a withering soul

kiss me in your backseat
like nothing has ever been like this before
'cause you kiss like a promise
like you have never wanted anything more
than me

and just maybe, i'm crazy about you baby
and i guess it's a mess but i've always loved messy
things

and with your lips on my neck, i feel like the best is yet to come
and with my heart on my sleeve, i hope you can see it beats like a drum

and i'm wrapped around your finger and my gaze might just linger on your face
and i can't help but notice what we've made of this moment in this place

is beautiful
you're beautiful.

in the streetlights, with your brown eyes looking into my heart
hold me tighter, with your bright lights lighting up the dark
you're lighting up

forty-eight hours is a long time to wear a binder,
and my ribs are screaming for mercy,
for a break from the compression and lack of mobility.
but it's not that easy.

sometimes i'd rather face the pain,
than face the fact that i am female.
these weights on my chest,
drag me to the ground.
i break down.

i feel locked in my body,
and all i want to do is break free.
nobody should feel the need to shower in the dark,
because the reality of their body is too much for them.
it shouldn't be this way

and i know i shouldn't compare myself to people,
but i cannot stop thinking,
'what if i were cis'.
i think of how much easier everything would be.
i wouldn't have to worry over how long i've been wearing my binder,
or if i pass,

i wouldn't have to worry about turning eighteen,
knowing i will be homeless.
but instead, my mother would celebrate her baby,
becoming a "legal adult."

forty-eight hours wouldn't be a worrying statement,
just another frame of time,
it wouldn't reflect on my self-care routines,
or lack thereof

it'd just be forty-eight hours.

It was electric.
A thousand things he never thought he'd feel again
racing down his spine.
Like a symphony of static, composed by this single moment.
Whole orchestras breathing in his mind.