What Is My Life For And What Am I Going To Do With It? I Dont Know And Im Afraid. I Can Never Read All

“What is my life for and what am I going to do with it? I don’t know and I’m afraid. I can never read all the books I want; I can never be all the people I want and live all the lives I want. I can never train myself in all the skills I want. And why do I want? I want to live and feel all the shades, tones and variations of mental and physical experience possible in my life. And I am horribly limited.” - Sylvia Plath, The Unabridged Journals of Sylvia Plath

my favourite poems

are the ones I wrote about you.

and my favourite nights

are the ones where I don't have to see you.

sometimes the only positive thing you can say about what’s going on is that time is still going, at more or less the same pace it ever was. everything changes eventually, and your situation won’t stay the same

“Start now. Start where you are. Start with fear. Start with pain. Start with doubt. Start with hands shaking. Start with voice trembling but start. Start and don’t stop. Start where you are, with what you have. Just… start.”

— Ijeoma Umebinyuo

you don’t know how much you meant to me.

how the words that left your lips

pierced my heart,

lurking in my head for hours.

how the sweet texts you sent

are locked up in my gallery

after all these months.

i look at them sometimes,

the screenshots taking me back

to a time that may have existed,

to a version of us

that looks perfect

in the haze of nostalgia.

is that a smile or a grimace?

a bittersweet taste on my tongue.

you don’t know how much you meant to me.

that drunken voice note still haunts me.

“i love you”s whispered in the dead of the night.

hours before dawn broke;

days before your heart did too.

i'm not sorry though.

i was sick of us,

sick of running in circles,

of the loop we were stuck in,

of our never-ending endings,

one step forward, two steps back.

you were a habit I couldn’t break,

but it was time to stop.

like a wilted flower clinging to a branch,

it was time to let go.

old habits die hard,

but as the nostalgia fades,

reality slams into me in waves.

and I’m glad I never told you

just how much you meant to me.

it’s a chilly autumn morning. you are snuggled in bed, vaguely aware of a rhythmic pattering on your roof, and dim cool light in your room. you fall back to sleep, dreaming of nothing but warmth and comfort. you awaken again, a few seconds before a a soft rumbling of thunder sounds. you have nothing to do today but listen and enjoy