“Pain is unavoidable, and sooner or later everyone reaches a breaking point. It’s okay that you’re broken, because being broken means you can be fixed.”

I am drawn to you,

Like starlight to black nights,

Or else the rough sea

To a sailors dreams.

If I am to continue,

My darling, I do so

From your spark

It has ignited the tinder,

Shaved from my chest,

Giving rise to a heat,

A roaring light.

You’ve gifted me the Sun,

And with it a simple hope,

That even though I am alone

I can find my own way home.

“For every day I spent believing I deserved to be alone, you promised to help me find all of them, so you could show me that there was never a time when I didn’t deserve love.”

When I’m talking to you, I never feel like I’m ever talking “at” you. Like, when I’m telling you a story about work, or about something I did as a kid, or something I imagined I’d do someday, I know your listening. I’m not sure how I know, I just do. It probably has to do with your eyes, and how they might not always be trained on my lips, but they never shift out of focus. Your hands also play a part, because they sit so calmly in your lap, not shifting or shaking, never appearing jittery or anxious to be on the move, except when than make their way into mine. Whenever I’m talking to you, it’s not like I’m just sharing words and stories, I feel like I’m sharing me. I feel like I’m sharing me, with me. You’re a part of me, and as a part of me it’s only natural that I’d share who I am with you. I want to share, and you want to share. When I’m talking with you, it’s like I’m just talking to the best parts of me, the parts I always forget I have. You remind me how much I have to offer this world, and I really, really hope I make you feel the same.

“She doesn’t give you rose tinted glasses, she just paints you the colors you were always meant to wear.”

I’m not a fan of flowers, or at least not real ones. I like paintings of flowers. I like buying fancy parchment with flowery borders. I like writing poems about purple irises, yellow daffodils and pink tulips. I like doodling roses on my notepad during boring office meetings. I like the idea of throwing the bouquet at weddings, and the idea of corsages for high school dances, and the dream of having a garden with a rainbow array of flowers to spend Sunday afternoons drinking tea and reading murder mystery novels. I like so many things about flowers, but I don’t like real flowers.

I like how flowers look in paintings, but never stop to appreciate the flowers growing in my neighbor’s yard. They attract every bug under the sun, and the air around those flowers hums from the wings of a thousand honey bees. I’m not particularly afraid of bees, and I know that bees help pollinate crops, thus feeding me, and yet I always move quickest when I’m fleeing a bundle of bees.

I like flowers in the borders of my parchment, but the open spaces lining my fence remain patches of untilled soil. Some color would brighten up my backyard, perhaps even increase its resale value when the time comes in a few years, but I can’t be bothered with most physical tasks anymore, and gardening is #1 on my list of pointless activities to avoid.

I like writing about flowers, because there’s a flower for every feeling. A purple iris evokes a somber tone, letting me express midnight regrets. Yellow daffodils are just mini, pluckable Suns, reminiscent of mild summer afternoons. Pink tulips remind me of the most provocative lipsticks I have ever seen, and they shade my world in the perfect amount of lust. But I’ve never had a tulip touch my lips, nor picked a daffodil in the summer sun, and I’ve never cried at night within sight of an iris.

I like doodling roses, because they are easy to draw, at least for me. I don’t really have to think about it, I just let my pen circle around the center of my paper until the general shape is in place. A few, strong lines here, some sharp curves there, and everybody recognizes what it is I’m drawing. It’s that recognition that I like, because my doodling isn’t some expression of art, it’s to try and garner attention from my fellow bored co-workers. I want to catch their eyes, so I draw something I can draw well, something everyone will recognize, and a rose fits the bill.

I like flowers at weddings and dances and filling up my world with color while I escape into a book, but that’s because it’s ingrained into my ideas of those things. I didn’t picture my wedding with flowers; the world never gave me a view of a wedding without them. I didn’t look forward to getting a corsage for my senior prom, but my parents wouldn’t take my picture without one choking my wrist. And I already spend my Sundays drinking tea and reading murder mysteries, and all from the comfort of my hand-me-down recliner, but every time I’ve ever seen an old lady enjoying retirement, it’s from the supposed comfort of a flowery garden escape.

I’m not a fan of flowers, or at least not real ones. That may seem contradictory, but to me it lines up with real life perfectly. We use flowers to celebrate our happiest days, but we also lay them down in front of our gravestones. We use flowers to show somehow how much we love them on holidays and anniversaries, but also to beg for forgiveness when we royally screw things up. We use flowers to color-in our front yards, backyards and every space in between, but still live in a world that creates inequality based on the color of a person’s skin.

So, I don’t like flowers, but I like the idea of flowers, because those ideas are much lovelier than the truth.   

The difference between a hope and a wish

I hope for things that have yet to come, and I wish I could go back and change everything. I’m nothing but a mess of what ifs, weighed down by a mountain of could have beens, and underneath it all is nothing but an ugly husk of questionable, molting moralities. Hoping is bullshit. It’s what those who lack the will to act get high on so they can ignore their own pathetic reflections. Wishing is kiddy garbage. It’s for idiots who can only make mistakes and never have the guts to break the cycle. Hope is for stupid people who think only of tomorrow, while wishing is for morons who can’t stop thinking of yesterday. I’m not sure which is worse, so I might as well fucking overdose on both.

 

“I hope that I can make up for everything, before my time is up.”

~I wish I wasn’t so fucking useless. ~

“I hope I don’t die without having accomplished anything at all.”

~I wish I wasn’t afraid of an afterlife. ~

“I hope that I’m gone before I have a chance to hurt anybody else.”

~I wish I hadn’t thrown those bullets out of the car window before I got home from work that day. ~

“I hope that when this year ends, it’s really the end.”

~I wish I had found the courage to take a few more pills, just enough to get some silence. ~

“I hope it stays warm through October; I don’t want to be buried in the ground when it’s cold.”

~I wish I had cut myself deep enough to bleed out. ~

“I hope I can do this before August; I don’t want to ruin my Sisters birthday.”

~I wish I could have died before wasting so much money on college. ~

“I hope that, when the Spring finally melts this snow, it can also melt my cowardice and I’ll be able to pull the trigger.”

~I wish I had killed myself before my first high school crush. ~

“I hope that I crash this car into a ditch and freeze to death; I fucking deserve to suffer quietly and alone before I die.”

~I wish a baseball would have hit me in the head during little league, so I wouldn’t have to live wishing I had the strength to hit myself hard enough to fucking die. ~

“I hope my death will somehow make up for all the shit I’ve caused throughout my life.”

~I wish I had jumped further from the pier, just far enough so my Dad couldn’t have jumped in and saved me, just far enough so that I would have suffered and drowned like the idiot 6 year old I was deserved. ~

“I hope that as this year begins, I don’t let it begin.”

~I wish I had never been born. ~

 

Wow, it’s truly amazing how pathetic I am. Hoping for an end while wishing that end had already come to pass, what a fucking piece of shit, what a truly disgusting, terrible, ugly creature I am. Fuck me. Seriously, just…I can’t even comprehend how fucking awful I am. Please, stop hoping and stop wishing and just pull the fucking trigger.

Just fucking die.