Love

It was the way he looked at you – with so much understanding.
It was the way that he knew what you were thinking before you said a thing.
It was the way that silences were light, and feelings steady; the way that he laughed wholly, and the warmth it brought.
It was his thoughtfulness, “I saw this and it reminded me of you” – and the way he wasn’t afraid to call you out on your bullshit.
It was how he took your guardedness in both hands and said, “stop. I know you’re scared. I know, I get it and it’s okay.“ It was how he held you, not to control you but to let you know that he was there.
How he never promised to love you forever, but every night promised to love you the next day.
It was his compassion and the way that he loved without condition.
It was the love he instilled in you, the affection and care that you never knew was possible.
It was him, laid simple and bare.
It was him.

– excerpt from a book I’ll never write
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he’d actually have to care to think about the way he ruined you and you know he didn’t look twice after ripping you to pieces

You’ll think, “He has to feel bad. He has to know that he broke my heart, and wish he had done it differently.”
And then the scariest thought is that he probably doesn’t think about it all, doesn’t feel bad at all, because he never even gave it a second thought.

– fragments

stay.

i. We don’t have a chance at a future anymore. We have shown each other too many times that fear always wins in this.

ii.  I don’t know how to forgive you for something you keep apologizing for. I can’t even begin to tell you about the way you hurt me or how it burns the way it does. You were never supposed to hurt like this.

iii.  It’s not that I can’t give you my heart anymore, it’s that I don’t know how to.

iv. I wanted you to stay. I really did. I never thought we’d end up the way we did.

– excerpt from a book i’ll never write

you always said you liked numbers

Thirteen
The number of times I thought about taking everything I said back that night
Thirty four
The number of times I wanted to forgive you because it was too hard to be without you
Three
The number of times I told myself I loved you the same day you fucking ruined me
Eight
The number of days I spent in my bed after I found out about her
One hundred, one thousand, one million,
Every day for the rest of my life
The number of days I would’ve loved you if you had fucking let me

– excerpt from a book I’ll never write

never mine, but entirely yours

he was never mine to begin with, that’s the part that I managed to miss.

Because I am entirely, entirely his.
I picked myself up from the dark to be able to tuck my heart into his left side chest pocket.
But he was never mine to begin with and I guess I was so caught up in him and the love I wanted to give that I never noticed how empty my pockets have been since the beginning.

– excerpt from a book I’ll never write

 

17 year old writings

I was cleaning out my old childhood bedroom the other day when I found a folded note in one of my night stand drawers.  while I wrote this roughly eight years ago (at age 17), it still resonates in my heart.
it’s almost as if my writings are only good when I’m depressed and suicidal, heart broken and barely keeping afloat, you know, never when I’m happy.

Last night I got to love you like there’d never been anyone else.
This morning I woke up to the sound of you leaving.  You were packing your things and you were telling me you were sorry.
I watched you in silence and I didn’t ask you to stay.
When you were ready, I walked you to the door and I closed all the windows.  I removed the “welcome” doormat and changed the locks, because I knew you were going to come back. 
You’re going to come back and you’re going to choose to love me then, but by then it’s going to be too late.  You can’t choose not to love me now and love me later because you’re “scared” or because you’re alone or because everything is caving in on you.
What I’m trying to tell you is that I love you, but I know better now.
You’re never going to love me like I deserve, and I shouldn’t have to keep waiting for you to get it right.

– except from a book I’ll never write