dexwritesthings

i've never been more of a goddamn liar than when i'm begging you: be honest. i can take it. i won't be resentful. i won't hold it against you, i promise. so the only thing i hear these days is: get off your fucking knees; but i don't know how, and you won't say, and the next step forward is so damn far away.

There's something wrong with the minutes in my head - I pack too many words in them. It's just a syllable, not a competition - but it's the only time I'm allowed to decide when this ends. You were the second thing I ever felt. I called you for security and not much else. And this won't leave me playing sadder songs for months; I always say too much. So there's a stack of letters on the dresser; please send them out if I didn't get to it in time. You can have all of my books if you burn the journals in the drawer. I know I'm leaving too much undone in both our lives. And yeah, they took the guns; one in January, one last week. But the most important thing I learned from you is what my epitaph should read: You know, the impossible - it never stopped me.

I wanted to draw you a picture but how the fuck do you make the rain look real? I'm being honest but it's the same as words: Stuttered. Incoherent. Slurred. It's not the only place to feel vulnerable. It's in a camera lens; an unopened message. You have a lot to say. You have a lot of nerve in black and white. In twelve-point type. All those long words giving me the ink to hide behind and read between, more white space than I'll ever need. Every motion-sick word you speak is another unstable line to complicate and we're dogwhistling these droning needs, hoping someone notices. Hoping that you're noticing. But aren't you so goddamn tired of me this week? Because I am, I am, I am.