Everyone has that secret, that’s not really a secret at all: it’s a plot twist, for better or worse.
It’s something that once shaped us: and once you know someone’s plot twist, you know that you’re in it for life.
And I can start every poem and every sentence with your smile alone. You’re sleeping right now and that’s okay. You don’t sleep enough. You’re always full of worry even if you’re trying to downplay the whole situation– it hurts less if we deny it, right? It only makes sense when we’re doing it right, so I’ve been trying to be more than just okay. I’ve been asking the heavens if it has a place for my mind, I’ve been asking hell if it’s ready for me. I bend myself into the sharp edges of every star, I still wish myself to bed. I track the time I spend on you because you’re always there even if I want to be left alone. Sometimes I trust myself, but most nights I just realize that I’m full of shit. Sometimes I love myself, but most nights I realize that I’ve got a long way to go and it’s this thing we call love– I’ve had enough of it, I’ve given so much away– but I never keep any for myself. They say the artistic lifestyle is bombarded by depression, they were right. They say the poet writes himself into a deep romance between the words of always kiss me goodnight and the stars are pretty tonight, they were never going to write us down correctly. They say that writers drink madness and smoke sentences made for lovers who can’t see that these words will never truly be theirs. I still break apart this lifeline to find myself in complete fear of myself– I’m really trying to be okay, I guess time is much needed. Sometimes I forget to love myself, but most nights– the tattoo of you is the closest thing that I have to a reminder of feeling better.