I find myself to be a place.
A place ‘where the actual and the imaginary meet’. A place where I go to listen to metal music, the only one that helps me find peace. Where I go to read books and breathe (both of which I do painfully slowly). Where I go to ‘sit down and bleed out’ on the paper and maybe get a chance to write something down.
I am made of fire and water. Also, my birthday is in December.
(Fucked up beyond all recognition)
I know I’m just cannon fodder for you.
I know the only place I belong is by your side.
I am mute when you start making promises.
I am blind when you fail to keep them.
I am deaf when you lie.
Your body is my base camp.
Your hands are my hideaway.
Your mind is my ammo dump.
Your goodbye is a gun to my head.
For all that, I’m alone again.
Despite everything, I’m still thinking of you.