And Are You Not The Most Palatable Anguish I Have Ever Allowed Myself To Feast Upon?

And are you not the most palatable anguish I have ever allowed myself to feast upon?

~Saturday Afternoon Reflections~

Your wife changes her hair color every season and her personality adjusts slightly. You’re secretly only in love with Autumn wife. She just came home sporting her Winter color.

My soul is tainted with sins I did not commit and I am guilty most days for being alive, when too many are not, though they would have chosen to be, and I dont know if I would choose to be if I was given the choice.

In my insatiability, I devour galaxies. Planets revolt inside me until I guilt myself to sleep. Cradeling stars in the craters of my teeth and dream of black abyss expanse swallowing me whole in revenge.

I fill the bathtub with every version of myself that has ever been loved, lay beneath the surface and drown myself in second chances. I sip a wine glass filled with cheap grocery store self love, alone on the floor of my bedroom at 2 am. I swear and curse until the flowers on my dresser wilt and hold a funeral for their corpses. I write a million poems that will never be read. There are words thruming in my veins, but I am so sick of cutting myself open to bleed them into existence.

I cant stand the sound of my own heartbeat most days, but the thoughts drown it out anyways. She says the silence isint supposed to hurt. And if it does, I am doing it wrong.Its not that I want to hate myself, its just that self love is an art I am not practiced in. And I have never much enjoyed partaking in things I am not perfected in.

Look me in the eye, love, and tell me that you can bear the person I have become. ~my miscellaneousness

I wonder who I could have become if I had been loved.

And in the end, is it not the desire for beautiful things that destroys us all?

~gold sinks easy, my poor king midas

If no one heard it, did it happen?

If a person cannot leave a mark, do they exist?

(The Invisible Life of Addie LaRue by V.E. Schwab)

Proof of my existence:

I am my unmade bed

My week old unfolded laundry that was Fresh once

I am the disappointment in my mothers eyes

And the scars I have left on lovers and strangers

I am my clothes I have donated

And my compilation of pintrest boards the innocent scroller will accidentally stumble across

I am the the jokes I penciled into the walls of my middle school bathroom stall

I am the dust I leave behind

Dead skin cells, reminder that they were living once

I was living once

I had once had the pleasure of laying my palm against the surface of something tangible and it felt the contact as much as I did

I am the peices of myself I have left scattered in the people I have let hold me

Long enough for parts of me to become caught under their fingernails and in their eyelashes

I am not my mistakes

But I am their consequences

I am shrapnel scars left by the promises I shattered

I am the pastries I have bought

My coin accumulating into something greater than it once was

And in that small way I make someone's dream a reality

And in that small way I am immortalized

I am the corners of novel pages I have folded

And the sentences I have left highlighted and the notes I have scrawled in its margins

I am the half finished stories I wrote in the 6th grade

I am my poetry

And the things I have discarded

I am my clouded breath dancing on the cold wind momentarily before dissipating

As it becomes one with the ether forever adrift

And in that small way I am immortalized

I am my embarrassing childhood photographs

I am the energy you spent on me and the time you wasted on us

I am the things I have created but perhaps more the absence left in the wake of the things I have destroyed

I am the stains I have left and the sins I have committed

Out of spite, out of desperation, frivolously or unwittingly.

I am the way my name burns yours tounge when your mouth tries to wrap itself around its pronunciation and the scalding memories

I am

I was

here.