The skeletons in your closet would like a proper burial. Old and afraid, they should have been six feet under a long time ago—it’s time for your weary bones to go home, my friend.
One of these days you will find what you are searching for, and it will burn you, like acid spilled on skin, but you will just smile with tears in your eyes and say, this is good. Why do you crave the things that hurt you, darling?
They say expectations are the root of all heartache and you know this adage intimately. You’ve begun to add hope to your expectations, a Molotov cocktail that you’re just holding in your hands: one of these days, it will explode in your face and leave scars that run deeper than burned and broken skin. Stop standing in the ruins of broken glass and broken trust.
Their love for you should not feel like a tattoo, etched upon your skin with a thousand needle pricks, bleeding you slowly bit by bit. Sure, it’s pretty. Sure, it’s “permanent”. But when it’s all said and done, when you get that tattoo removed because they’re gone and it hurts too much to look at, all that will be left is a scar you can’t hide from yourself.
You are tinged with loss and heartache but you are made up of love and confidence—do not forget that even lions have their bad days. Bravery sometimes means facing the wounds on the inside. Bravery sometimes means conceding the fight today so you can fight tomorrow.
You smile softly and spin lies with red roses between your teeth; you do it so very prettily but the thorns cut deep—stop spitting blood at the people you’re trying to keep. One of these days, your tongue will trip over your red stained teeth as you try to hide your grief.
There are some regrets better left alone, and an unanswered voicemail with your voice all over it is one of them. Don’t pick up that phone. Don’t dial that number. Don’t make this harder than necessary.
Rebel, people would brand you. Reckless, people would tell you. Tragedy, people would call you. It’s too bad you’ve cut the phone line, so you can’t hear them speak their ugly words anymore. Is that a good thing?
We all believed in the lava when we were young, and though we can no longer see it, you know it still burns. We have no more couch cushions to jump on for safety and we must smile as our feet touch the lava ground, screaming, “we’re fine, we’re fine; the fire doesn’t hurt us”. I hope someone sees through your gritted teeth.
Empty words carry the weight of bricks, and you let them slam into you with each exhalation—you’re left with black eyes and purple bruises that you’re too polite to point out. You are a broken human with broken bones, so with a bloody smile, just fucking leave; this love of yours has become as heavy as it has become empty.
Playing Phantom of the Opera, you wear the mask with ease, and they can only see the pupils of your eyes. They think you’re smiling but I know you are crying—eyes crinkle the same, either way. Do you act for the audience, or for yourself?
You’re carrying around the pieces of your heart in a jar; one by one you give them away, and one by one, they come back in smaller fragments. Stop letting people break your heart, stop breaking your own damn heart. You deserve so much better—act like it.