It’s 3.47am and I miss you just like I did last week at 2.15 in the afternoon when I remembered the last time you told me you wanted me and you meant it. It’s 3.47am and I should be sleeping but all I can think about is how you used to smile when I told you you were beautiful and the way you held me tight and said you would never let me go but I guess things change and people move on and now you’re sleeping and I’m lying awake thinking about you.
I wish I was sleeping - 3.47am 06/05/14 (via curiovsly)
      I could hear running water the moment I decided to stop swimming in my own heart. It was cold out, the winter rain beating drum like rhythms on the worn glass of my window. I had always seen the raining sky as something sad, crying for all it did not understand, but tonight it was angry.
      Shattering and pounding and screaming at the windows, the rain drowning out the dripping tap, tearing my concentration from myself and out into the sky. I wanted to be a constellation or a nebula or something slightly worth remembering. But the rain, it trapped me back into my porcelain chest, my heart ripping at the sinew and marrow in a hope that I would feel something worthwhile again.
      I cry a lot, often for myself. Tears paint my cheeks red, my wrists bleeding stars. I didn’t want to be that girl, the one who danced slowly to fast music, the girl who couldn’t bear the thought of love until she found the bottom of a bottle. I drink until the sky turns purple, until my heart beats thunder and their lips speak truth, and I attach myself to the smallest formation of affection in hopes that it won’t wither as it has so many times before.
      My mother doesn’t believe me when I say that love is for people who hate themselves. She tries so hard to plant roses in my brain, to spark fire into my stomach, but I refuse. Love is thorns and love letters and words dripping arsenic. I don’t want to be rejected, to be tossed aside; I don’t want love to be something I crave. Loneliness has always worked so well for me, protecting me in a cocoon that allows just enough light that I can smile in the mornings.
      I kiss strangers and friends and dance with the lights off and I breathe smoke into my lungs because I am a dragon. I am a castle with a moat and fire. I am mould and danger; the girl who should’ve been left to die. I see my reflection in boiling water, in shattered glass, but most of all, I see myself in the puddles left after a heavy rain.
      I am so selfish. I disgust myself. But at the same time, I cannot help but crave the attention, the lust of others; I want their hands on my body and in my mouth and on my thighs. Breath on my neck, sweat on my back, but I do not want the attachment. The emotion. The love.
      I am not the girl you take home to your mother. I am the girl you meet in the dusty corner of a smoky bar, the girl whose heart lies in the bottom of a bottle, whose feet shuffle to a song that’s ended. I will not kiss you until I can no longer understand what I’m saying, I will not touch you until your name has melted from my tongue. I will not love you until I learn to love myself.