I am sorry about the blood you taste in these poems. It was boiling, and I didn’t know where else to put it. On my best days, I am still a little angry. On my worst days, I am not sorry for it. I want you to listen closely to what I don’t want to say. If the sadness grabs you by the collar, don’t kiss her back. When you are no one else’s first choice, be your own. Forgive the broken winged birds for forgetting how to fly, and forgive the splintered boats for learning how to sink. I know I’m in no place to tell you any of this, but my hands needed to hold something, and this pen is all I had. Lately, I’ve been too much wind and not enough rain. All this sits inside of me, and I just knock things down. Nothing ever grows like it used to. Maybe I’m losing my mind, but I’m too busy searching for my pulse to notice. I am telling you this, so you don’t ever think it’s pretty. I need you to stop setting the things you love on fire. I need you to know that there are better ways to find light. I need you to know that there are better ways to find warmth.
Y.Z, A letter to my future self (via rustyvoices)
My knuckles are painted white, and I want to ask you what it means to be forgiven. I wedge my name in between my teeth, like it is a Sunday confession. Like it is the shame I am running from in every nightmare I don’t remember having. If I’m the one to destroy myself, does it still count as losing? The answer is yes, it counts even more. I don’t think any of us meant for it to happen this way. I don’t think we meant to wake up and dread survival. There is always a dream sitting in the crook of my neck that talks in its sleep. Most nights, it only ever mumbles about waking up. It is good to know that I never wanted to leave here, I just wanted to create a place worth staying in.
Y.Z, the fifth confession (via rustyvoices)