Wednesday, 14 October 2015

I write

I write because I don't understand. Something about laying the words down in front of me, helps me to understand better. I write about love because it is the one question I don't have an answer to, the flavour I can't place, the missing card in my full set. When it comes to love, I don't know how. I either squeeze too tight and kill it fast, or run - run hard until my lungs are empty and all I can feel is my heartbeat pounding and blood filling the empty places inside of me. I am best when I am alone, when you are at arm's length. Or not here at all. I fall asleep easily without you here, my bed sheets and memories remain unstained for now. There are no songs which remind me of you, or streets, or scents. I am whole, I am happy, I collect the days and press them into chapters of heavy books to keep for myself. My kingdom is illuminated with every sunrise, I leave the ivy untrimmed to climb the walls. I like it that way. No one to impress, no one to trim my edges.

And when I feel my heart begin to attach, I panic. My mind floods. I'm out of control, driving on an unfamiliar highway. How wonderful it would be to enjoy the spinning for once, rather than bracing for the crash and the burn...

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