10 22 , 9.38 pm
i regret to inform that i can no longer be the author of ghost stories
my dad always told me to never communicate with the dead;
told me my best attribute was my naïveté
i never agreed.
his fear was holier than anything i had ever felt
today i realized i am the one tearing myself apart.
today i realized that inviting the apparitions back is only increasing the inevitability of my detriment
i do fear that i wont know who i am
if i cant hear them here
but if i cant make them leave
i know ill be the one to disappear/
in a love letter to my heart
i begged her to stop beating.
she never listens to me,
ignores my endless pleading
i think i hate her
and i think its because,
in many ways,
she is like me.
but capable of anything
she has been broken more times than she has been whole;
believes that one day she will escape the cage that has robbed her of her freedom for as long as she can remember
she loves to wear herself on her sleeve
tell me why
i wake up more and more exhausted everyday
why i am so scared of the nightmares i cannot wake up from,
that i proceed to proliferate them in my writing with the utmost enthusiasm
i allowed myself to believe that love felt like my young and frail body slamming against a doorframe in the house where knives were hidden everywhere
the house where i was a whisper
dressed in quiet bruises and surrounded by loud screams.
ask me anything.
but dont ask me how i shattered into a thousand pieces and never made a sound
each of my bones snapped so loudly, i felt my ears split
i could not tell you why
i was the only one who could hear.
so dont ask me how i became a paradox with a pulse
i dont think ill ever find the words to explain how terrified i am of myself
my heart continues to beat life into my chest,
and although sometimes it is against my own will,
im beginning to think that there is a reason
i want more than anything
to believe that there is a reason
i want to believe that there is something
that will last