i cannot stop listening to this poem

you are my masterpiece
i could look at you all day

you are my favourite song
i could listen to you on repeat

you are my favourite film
each time i watch you i discover new meaning

you are my favourite poem
filling the spaces that yearn in my soul

you are the morning sun
i admire but cannot touch

you are the gift i always wanted
that opens for someone else

you are the wound that can be healed
but you only want to keep it raw

you are the one i love
loved by another

you are all the pain of the world
so deep between my fucking ribcage


Some people say that in order for you to move on, you have to make yourself busy, focus on the things you love, and divert your attention. That you have to travel alone and date yourself and do not listen to sad songs.
But I guess, those were just temporary escapes.
You need to feel what you should feel. You have to go through the pain, no matter how painful it is. You have to. You have to endure every single pain that it brings.
You need to trust the process. It may take so fucking long but trust and believe that the pain you are feeling right now has an ending.
You cannot force yourself to not be bitter. You cannot stop yourself from listening to sad songs or reading sad poems that speak to what you are really feeling.
You will get through it and someday, you will be okay.
I trip over my words.
I stutter when I’m nervous,
Cannot articulate the feelings that are stealing my voice.
My throat goes tight and my mouth dries up.
All of that stops when I have a pen in hand.
I have preserved myself in paper.
There are thousands of versions of myself scrawled in these lines.
All these verses and stanzas and snippets come together to form a girl with ink inside her veins.
There are a thousand demons in my head.
They are constantly trying to break me,
Until I open up my notebook.
Then they stop to listen.
—  Why I write.
He has green eyes that look into mine and I can see his pupils dilate whenever I’m smiling. I’m afraid; whenever I’m tracing my fingertips on his skin, I almost feel enjoyment, kind of like the same way it feels to put your bare feet on soft, earthy, grass in the middle of spring time. He terrifies me. The way I cannot seem to leave his lips, once they’re on mine, as if some kind of magnetic fucking force and our lips are magnets. We were just on my couch and I was listening to his heartbeat. I think it’s my favorite sound, other than hearing the syllables of my name roll off the tip of his tongue. I can’t stop shaking around him. I thought I was dead, but boy, I was wrong. I was just a plant solemnly waiting for the snow to melt into water, so once again I can grow.
—  (J.M.S)