Everything’s getting pretty chaotic, within my wits. You hang your hopes around my head, building castles in the sky. Like we’re half married or half degutted, we cling on each other to skip the meaningless chitchat. I guess you’re more than just a wooer, or my truelove; it’s more like an aching heart-desire.
I’m always worried sick thinking that it might get weary being around me. I’ve always been the gloomy, lifeless, repelling type; which makes it sort of difficult to live due to the fact that I am a fuck-up. [I really hate my therapist for telling I am the reason people leave me]
I want to burn this infinite fondness I have towards you. I’m a fuck-up and will always be. Do you still love me? I really can’t picture myself with someone else; it gets pretty chaotic within my wits.
THERE IS A LOT THAT NEEDS TO BE DONE/SAID, BUT THE SLIGHTEST STRETCH COULD CRACK THE WHOLE STRUCTURE.
I feel you deeply within my bones, like you travel in my veins, slowly oxygenating my body. You’re the healer and the demise; you slip through my pores and possess my anatomy. I like it right here, living inside my guts, with you. It’s warm and cozy, it smells like a meat market or carnage; sort of sweet and vinegary. We dandle, touch and kiss under my skin; all I can hear is the erratic rhythm of my heart. This is all I want, everything I need, all there is for me.
Be still, my heart.