Unbeautiful by Lesley Roy reminds me that all good things come to an end. Even if I once felt perfect in your eyes, I remember too clearly the nights when I never felt good enough, smart enough, understanding enough. But yesterday when I saw you smile, I finally, finally, fully understood the meaning of how fearful it feels to love something death can touch. And even though I might not always have felt this was right, I remember why I never once felt it was wrong.

(Source: anditslove, via creatingaquietmind)

Like crazy

I wish I could tell you it no longer means as much to me, or that after all this while, I have finally grappled with the possible truth — but I have reached my lying quota for the year by constantly feeding myself beautifully packaged ones to keep my chin up, back straight.

It is a painful moment when you realise you could possibly love someone more than you love yourself. Everything else from there on out is done for them, without yourself in mind, and in the long run, you give and you give and you give until you have nothing left of yourself. And even then you keep on giving. It becomes impossible to be yourself anymore when so much of your heartbeat consists of the existence of another. There is nothing self-sacrificial nor unconditional about giving because one always subconsciously expects something, anything in return.

I am most afraid of the beginning of the end, because the few moments before final resignation are tainted with the desperation of a dying man who realises he will miss the air.

Flashes of stardust

Wrap my aching heart in your words. Mend my wounds with a gossamer of oddly shaped feelings. Kiss, kiss, kiss the multiple bruises that surfaced when I fell for you. When they say it is near impossible to have a first love twice, they mean nothing will ever feel as giddy or as passionate as the first time a boy traces his fingertips over your lips, or tattoos your forehead with dancing kisses, but then I think of you and you are number four in theory but number one in all else.

Romance is summertime sadness, a juxtaposition that leaves me happy to be sad, but then love does make you insane. It might not be easy but it’s never difficult when your whole world fits inside of your arms. Because you make me want to write for forever and two days, seven hours, and therefore you control me. 

This is what they mean when they tell you to date a writer. A writer writes about you, all ways, always.

On perfection

(a) Find someone who helps you love yourself. So that when you look yourself in the eye, instead of your too-big too-small unloved parts, you see a goddess. So that when your shimmer fades, he is able to make you glow again with a simple tuck of stray hair behind your ear. So that you will never have to fill the gaping holes in your heart with company you seek in the shadows of the night.

(b) Find someone that does not insist on fixing you, but instead is comfortable with holding your hand as you navigate the rubble of your mind with nothing but a broken compass. So that he embraces your burning coals of sadness in ways too painful for you to handle. So that he fights for your right to feel your pain, even if he might not completely understand it. So that you never have to feel ashamed of your epaulet of battle wounds.

I, Cartographer

I trace circles on your face, in your hair, down your back and you nestle closer, tucking yourself in between the space my limbs have created for you until there we lie: knee against head, shoulder against ankle, an imperfect symmetry of teenage love. I like running my fingers down your spine and across your lower back, just because sometimes this still feels surreal. Here, gentle kisses to tell you you don’t have to go, but of course you must, for there are far more important matters than those of the heart. I often wonder, do you carry my words like I do yours, storing them in your hippocampus instead of the heart? They say the heart is fickle but the mind is a fortress, and mine has ten-foot walls to prevent accidental misplacement of sweet nothings. I could stay in one position, in one place, with you and I would have travelled the world and back. How many people can you genuinely say that about?

Lover’s insecurities

And then, there are the words that unravel you with a solitary tug at the loose thread holding your fragments together. This article did it for me tonight. I saw it yesterday but avoided stepping within a one-click radius from it because I knew the emotional repercussions. But a few minutes ago, a friend piqued my interest and I decided to give it a shot — and right now I am quite a disaster. Facing your insecurities straight on does that to you, because as much fearlessness as you want to bottle up and save for a rainy day, there is something about Time and Distance and its brutally potent mix that strips you of your defenses, and reduces you to becoming incredibly aware of your all-consuming need for selective companionship. All I ask is that if it comes down to it, that I am strong enough to survive. You are becoming more to me than I ever planned.