I’m Always A Little Too Much For People To Handle. A Little Too Sad Or A Little Too Overbearing Or

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Chef's Special

Tell everybody I’m rotten, That my heart is rancid, Hidden behind a candy coating. Go ahead, stuff them with the Heavily garnished dish you serve To make yourself look better. They will rave and crave more, Even as they’re bloated to bursting. Send them to me with heaps of sugar So I know they gorged on your Spiced up, juicy entrees with Me as the bitter center, You the martyred master chef. But I wasn’t the first to get fed Up with your poison (It seems to be your specialty) And I won’t be the last if you Refuse to see the one key Ingredient in every course: You

Your poetry is gorgeous

your heart isn’t purple but it’s certainly not yet black perhaps it’s shades of blue for a love that’s not coming back

life stresses mean it’s certainly not mellow and your courage keeps it from turning ribbon yellow

your heart’s certainly not it’s natural rose red but whatever hue it beats shows your heart isn’t yet dead

THERE MUST BE A PARAGRAPH BREAK EVERY TIME A NEW CHARACTER SPEAKS

THIS IS NOT OPTIONAL

NO ONE WANTS TO READ ONE BIG BLOCK OF TEXT JESUS CHRIST

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I went through people like I went through books. Compulsively. Consistently. One after the other. Falling in love. Shedding tears. Obsessing. Hating. Cursing. I was amused. Curious. Excited. Interested. Happy. Heartbroken. In pain. Some people like books were triology, a series, in terms of the phases of my life and our interactions. Some just stand alone books. Some got stained with my coffee. The others got away like the books you lend to friends and never get back. Most are sitting right here, on my bookshelf, most dusty yet precious. I don't read them again, but often think fondly of them. Like 442 pages, some stay in my life for 442 days. But the point is. I go through people the way I go through books. But people aren't books. I can't devour them. I can't annotate them. I can't derive my own meaning out of them. They are living, breathing souls. Deriving their own meaning out of my existence and our interactions. But that's not even the troubling part. The troubling part comes here: like books, I can't finish reading people. I can't be done with them. But I still need the next one, the new one. The one from another genre. The one I chance upon in a foreign country's independent bookstore cafe. I guess I've realized this. I've admitted it. This is my dark side. I go through people like I go through books. I used to think it's people who always leave. And I guess I was right. People do always leave. But I'm the people. I'm the one who leaves. Not literally. Not explicitly. Not painfully. But gradually, silently, in care and love. And that's more horrible, isn't it? Isn't it.

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“I want to paint the universe without using colors, so I splashed my tears until they dried, I poured my emotions until I became one with sky.”

— ⠀𝒶𝓇𝓉𝓎𝓅𝓇𝑜𝓈𝑒

http://iglovequotes.net/

I also feel the same way