I keep writing about you.
they tell me my words are beautiful.
I don’t know why.
maybe because they’re written for you,
but what they don’t know,
what you don’t know.
is that I stare at this blank fucking paper;
and all I feel is rage,
anger and frustration.
because I write down these things
and it never comes close to what I feel.
but if actions could be translated to words,
I would write me shouting in my fucking car.
because your favorite song came up on my god damned pandora station again.
I would write me standing in the shower while the scolding water burns my skin
as I try to think of the exact moment I lost you.
and then I would write me shutting off the water
in total defeat.
because I realize I never even had you.
I would write how a fire starts in my chest
whenever I see a picture of you and her.
I’ve never envied a stranger so much before.
and I would write how my eyes burn
as I continue to stare at the god damn ceiling at 3 AM missing you.
being up that late was only fun when you were around.
I wish you were still around…
I don’t even know how to fucking end this.
there’s no poetic way to say I feel like fucking shit.