Sleeping at Last

I guess space and time
takes violent things, angry things
and makes them kind

I just have this mad feeling to say this out loud, and honesty, I no longer care if this is gonna be published here on my blog or not.

I love you, okay? Nothing else matters now because I really do. I have been loving you since the day we’ve met. Since I first talked to you, I instantly felt this attraction that is between us. I don’t know if it’s love at first sight, because I honestly do not believe in such, but you — you’re different. I have never felt this rage of emotions and it’s just amazing how you make me feel.

Looking back, I remember what you were wearing the day we met: the blue ragland, which is one of your favorite shirts, brown trousers and boat shoes. Yeah, you were wearing boat shoes. I don’t know how it could have happened that someone like you could make me feel something so fictional, so subjective and bizarre that I couldn’t help but think to myself, “I want his attention all to be mine.” And I guess that’s exactly what happened and more.

For 10 months and counting, I have loved you, and still continue loving you despite all the flaws, friction and imperfections that you have. I love your imperfections like the way you smile that makes your shaved face expand, how your eyebrows look like caterpillars, but fits you perfectly. How your lashes are so long that you sometimes hate them, which I think is beautiful; your feet that are too big with a foot size of 13, which is pretty cool.

I love you, and I always want to be with you, and if you would allow, I want that to be a fact forever and always. 

I don’t usually allow people to enter my heart, because I’m afraid that they’ll take too many pieces of its already deformed self, but with you I’m willing to give every piece that I have and dare not take it back.

We may not know what’s ahead of us, but I’m sure as hell that I want to spend it with you.

I love you. Hopelessly, truly, madly and irrevocably.

Hurt me, too

October 14, 2014

Please, talk to me,
Tell me how bad it aches, describe
In excruciating detail how it felt when
I killed something so important to you. Answer me,
How much red blood poured from your throbbing veins when
I stabbed you in the chest? Show me
How it hurt, press the blade against my breast until I feel what you do.
It’s been too long since cuts last appeared on my skin, but you know
Those wounds were inflicted by me; I want these wounds
To be inflicted by you. Talk to me, please,
I want to know what I did to you. I want to know
If you took out the knife that impaled your heart or if it’s
Still there. Did you pull it from your chest and lose
More blood because the wound was suddenly opened wide? Did you
Bandage the damage immediately after or are you still
Bleeding red? I want to know
If you’ll trust me with your heart and soul ever
Again. I want to know if the harm done is beyond repair.
I want to know if the wreckage can be built up again,
If the shrapnel can be pieced together, if the scrap metal
Can be welded into something new.
Just tell me everything will be okay, or
Tell me it’s over. Just tell me whatever
Causes you less pain.
Please, I’m begging you, tell me the truth
Or tell me lies. I don’t care which of the two you choose
As long as the words you give me
Will hurt me as much as I
Hurt you. Please, make me feel your pain.
Force me to survive with the knowledge that I destroyed
A part of you. I’m already barely surviving and
If this form of existence is called living,
I’d rather die bleeding red from a wound
Given to me by you. Please, I’m asking you,
Hurt me, too.

Not much has changed, really. I still smoke cigarettes no matter how many times I tell myself that I’ll stop. I still drink numerous cups of coffee everyday and I still scribble my words away on my notebook, though there are occasional drawings or doodles that I try to do even if I’m not a gifted artist.

I’m turning twenty, yet I know I haven’t figured life out yet. It’s frustrating, ‘cause I’m trying to figure out how to live life and how life works, then again Ben once said that there’s a very fine line between living and learning life. I think people should be reminded of that every once in a while.

Though not all of us have our lives in front of ourselves, still, we should make the best out of it. Learn as much from it and be the best out of it — but all these words are sometimes shit. Not all the time we make the best out of life or even be the best out of everything.

What am I even writing? Am I still making sense?

"…you’re about to turn twenty and they never remind you how young that is. Falling in love does not make you grow up, heartbreak does, and there is more than one way to fall apart.


You’re about to turn twenty and it’s okay if you aren’t ready. It’s okay if you aren’t ready. It’s okay.

"
Turning 20; Caitlyn S.

I’ve Been Smoking A Lot Lately

Late night thoughts
and 3am coffee mugs
I’m lost in the ashes that surrounds me
with all the things in between.

I wish to free myself from all
that bounds me.
When will this happen?

Dates with my thoughts
makes me feel like I’m going mad
with tears running and hands shaking,
I force myself to pull another stick
and light it for oxygen.

Someone save me.

To try ones best to write is the one of the most frustrating efforts a man can do. Scribble, erase. Type, delete. This cycle almost always goes on forever that you just come to a point where you give up and say “fuck it” but not really mean it ‘cause you know that you’ll still try tomorrow or the day after next.

Like right now. I’ve been trying to write something… nice, but… yeah. Never mind.

It’s been a while.