I always want my life to feel honest.
Sometimes life isn’t words wrapped around anything,
there might not be any metaphors that I can pull from the vapor of what’s happening.
I woke up in the white crisp softness of my own bed this morning, alone.
And it made me incredibly happy that I didn’t need anyone anymore.
So I still worry about the girl who hasn’t texted me,
because I like to drag myself over words like guilt and fear.
and I think maybe kissing her infront of her friends was too much
I like to punish myself for doing what makes me happy.
I cram fistfuls of words into my memories to make them more memorable
Most days the world comes swinging at me,
just not hard enough for me to feel it connect
that night, I cut my hand on the edge of the world,
and what I know that you don’t is that that isn’t a metaphor.
sometimes honesty is the poetry.
