What A Subtle Form Of Self Harm It Is To Love You.

The worst thing you ever did was to make me believe I could be loved

I don't think I could ever stop writing completely.

permillion44

If life is a cold, harsh night

You are the moon that makes it bearable

For what other thing would thrive?

Even in the most monstrous forms of dark?

If to love is to rest

Then I will perceive death for you.

For what greater form of rest do we know?

Than to lie in the cold, dark earth forever?

If to long is to grieve

Then I shall make home of a funeral

For what harsher grief it is?

Than to irreversibly lose someone

Alternate universe

In an alternate universe

I am 14 and alone in my room

And my hands havent harmed myself yet

What can life offer anyway

That I can't have with you in death?

What feels more like home anyway

Than it does besides your grave?

You were scared to ruin me

I assured you that you wouldn't

The unsaid truth was this:

I was already ruined

Long before I met you

Long before I knew how to love

And even before you became my home

.

But you left and it felt like death

Everyone said I'd get used to it

The cruel desire was this:

I don't want to get used to you

I don't want time to heal me

I always want you to be

An unbearable ache that kills me

.

My mind is being held hostage by you

And even in grief you feel like home

The maddening question is this:

Will you love the monster in me?

Will you love me at the end of the world?

Will you simply just love me?

The grave that I call my home

Where love doesn't exist.

The monster that I call my father

For whom peace doesn't exist.

The demon that I call my mother

For whom compassion doesn't exist.

The nightmare that I call my world

For which I dont exist.

The despair that I call myself

For whom joy doesnt exist.

The curse that I call my life

Where living doesn't exist.

Him

He was butterflies.

He was anxiety.

He was silent cries.

He was that feeling of empty.

He was reliance.

He was trouble.

He was treacherous.

He was loyal.

He was steady.

He was unstable.

He was needy.

He was unpredictable.

He was my almost lover.

He was a goddamn nightmare.

He was a million little emotions.

Mixed into a disconsolate one.

Tw: eating disorders and self harm

The monsters in my head. They won't leave.

An empty stomach. A grave where I live.

Scars on my thighs. A strange relief.

A disconsolate existence. A sigh of grief

My shattered childhood. It haunts me still

Whimpers of pain. A broken will.

Venomous family. Full of greed.

Begged you to stop it. It never did.

Spring is awaking from its slumber 🤍💐🌾