always worse.

if i told you,

"you could fuck right off out my life, and it wouldn’t make an impact."

you’d probably blame yourself.


then say, "actually that’s quite poetic."  
then tell me that i’m pretty, and sometimes my eyes sparkle when i’m sad.

then I’ll end up apologising because - fuck it.
who was i kidding anyway?




sometimes i see people, and i can’t forget their face for days.
i wonder if i’ve ever stuck in anyone’s mind?




once I held your hand, and we were connected by veins and strings of blood. But it was cold, too cold for us. The flesh ripped away and we were left clutching each other’s bones.   





people keep telling me “one day I’ll get my shit together”
but i don't think any of us really believe it.




one time i was pissed and ignored you for a week.
“what’s the point?” you said,
“I’ll be dead soon.”
so i felt guilty, and cried everyday for a year.





when they ask -
(if they ask)

"how come you’re never round anymore?"

i’ll say, “I’m tired” and leave it at that.
because there are some things you don’t need to mention.




_{i can’t help thinking that if people would just read between the lines, or read the lines in the fucking first place i’d find it a lot easier to just live.}

we don’t need to talk all the time.




sometimes when she’s sleeping she talks to ghosts, but only hears half the conversation.  

nonononono. stop talking. stop talking. please leave me alone.
nonononono. don’t leave me in the dark.

i’m scared. please.

please. i’m so scared. help me. please.



sometimes she wakes up sobbing
"nononono i don't want to be in love with you anymore."

and she rocks back and forth for hours whispering and reassuring herself

"it's okay,
corpses can’t love you back."