fuck.

i am insecure.
hands shaking.
air raking throughout my chest.
what am i doing here again?
picking at old wounds like i've got reinfield syndrome.
i need to feel the blood to remember that i'm still alive.
need to taste its metallic sweetness.
what am i doing here again?
didn't i have enough of this supposed rejected stage in life?
haven't i grown tired of waking up happy and going to sleep sad?
what happened to smiles, and sunsets, and cookie dough icecream?
where have all of my other emotions gone?
hiding.
laughing while watching me scramble about on a desperate search for something other than

" i don't know. "

these words themselves act as fuel to the fire.
they bring nothing but anguish.
doubt.
fear.
silence...

silence...

he doesn't like it when i'm quiet.
and things would be easier if i was a good liar.
if i was damn good at hiding my emotions.
pretending.
but i'm not.
i don't even know what they are.
these things that tighten my chest.
like victorian era corsets.
tight enough to break ribs and steal breaths.
his voice grows firm and my heart kicks it up a notch.
all attention is centered on the fact that my slow, labored breathing can't keep up with my pulse.
he says he loves me.
so why do i feel like that's an accusation all on its own?



"you're disappointing" it says. "you're disappointing but you're so beautiful when broken."