april third

I keep writing about you.
They tell me my words are beautiful.
I don’t know why.
Maybe because they’re written for you,
you’re beautiful.
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 I would write how my eyes burn
as I continue to stare at the goddamn ceiling at 3am 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.