Does anyone ever want to disappear? Writers often do.

I do. Somewhere. Anywhere.

I want to disappear into my thoughts; away from all others. All of these thoughts remain until the realisation you are lonely. It makes you want to run back and place your feet on familiar ground once more.

Familiar ground for me forever seems to be your head upon my chest and your kisses on my neck. I wish this wasn’t the familiar ground I want to run back to.

I find myself running more these days; further and further away, for longer periods of time. You are still the familiar ground.

I wonder how far I will have to go before I cannot return and disappear into an unknown field of dreams, unfelt thoughts and unseen surroundings. How long before I can exhale and get that feeling of being lost and no longer scared?

You are still the familiar ground.

I am trying to change this and disappear.

You are still the familiar ground.

—  Navin E. (on wanting to disappear)

when i watch the clock strike 12,
sat up in my bed,
pen in my hand;
i have to write reminders
to myself
on the pages of my journal,
on the frame of my bed,
on the surface of my skin,
not to call you.

because i know
if i am awake to watch the clock strike 12
i will stay awake
and watch 1, 2, and 3, come and go.
and right around 4 am i know
i will fall apart.
i will ruin the pages of my journal with tears,
i will have collapsed on my bedroom floor;
the same sad songs ringing through my head,
bouncing off the walls,
echoing off of my emptiness.

my head will hurt,
my hands will shake,
and i will write over and over
“i don’t want to be here”

at 4 am as i fall apart
i know i will want nothing
but to hear your voice.
i will want nothing but to feel your arms holding me.
because i know that you can make me feel,
as though nothing is wrong.
you can mend my soul,
even if only temporarily.
you make me feel whole.

so it is now
at 12 am
that i have to remind myself;
when 4 am comes around,
i can’t call you.
because i can’t fall in love with you
again.

—  hello, goodnight

I am 20 years old, moth-bitten eyes, crooked shutter mouth, and heavy hands. I hate the summer, being yelled at, and my job. I don’t know how to sing, sew, or fly a kite without it crashing so hard into the earth it resembles Alexander’s sword.

I will not tell you how much I wrote about you.

Your name is caught in the undertow of my mind’s salt water. I will keep rolling every letter on my tongue until it sounds right, until I can think of something more to write than the fact that you’re gone. Empty pages don’t need any more empitness; I can feel them sag and cave in, asking me to write about someone better—there must be someone better. But this isn’t a choice, and it never has been. I play detective with a pen, examining the battle field like a crime scene, trying to find years’ worth of clues I was too blind to notice. I keep thinking that if we only exsist together on a page,
well somewhere,
we’re still together.

—  daisylongmile  Every Ex Lover

You can only want someone so much, for so long. After a while want becomes obsession and obsession becomes a parasite that eats away at you from the inside out, and you know that you need to do whatever you can to rid yourself of it before you are left with nothing and no one, except the vultures who gather to feast on your bones. 

I can already taste the freshness. The shift in warmth. The gray mornings. The world falling into a spectrum of colors. There’s that touch of chill kissing my skin, lingering at the tips of my fingers and nose. I can hear the hush tones of change, of coffee-stained evenings, of misty skies, and of early promises. I’m waiting for nature to attend to its course of life, for leaves to ablaze in colors, and for me to say, “I’m still alive” while they die. I think this is one of those very rare instances, if not the only one, where dying is so beautiful. The flakes of sunset orange, gold, crimson, and burnt sienna give the elegance and beauty in the word fall.

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