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Elizabeth. Eighteen. I write sometimes.

before, during, after.

before:

i wish i could paint unlimited imagery unto the hollow walls of your inner eyelids, just so every moment you spent blinking, you’ll still foresee induced fragments in darkness. shower you in a rampant comet of metaphors to indulge during times you feel not so fine, similes to perk a curve onto the side of your face, spreading your lips, glimmering with happiness.

comfort you with a blanket of metaphors wrapped around your disposition for safe keeping, handled with care, secured with passwords of impossible measures that even experience can’t decipher in a million sunrises. 

build a castle of trust carefully between connection after communication, not to rush, labels are the last thing on my mind, but to ensure a flash of mutual affection, anything, though one instance during shared glances and speeding emotions. that this ambition leads somewhere, not leave me hanging there by the thread of stringed promises swerving tightly around each other creating knots of instability fastened around my heart. 

respire with you, breathe in your insecurities and flaws, fill my lungs with these simple things that i absorb gluttonously. with this constant inspiration, i can’t help but draw sketches of future masterpiece underlying a common factor: you.

feel the rise of your chest inhaling the similar atmosphere, realizing your presence, observe the lazy dive of exhalation morphing close to the term ‘falling in love’.

during:

anything with falling, is close to bringing bad memories. as if it’s as easy as falling from my bike, that could be fixed with a single slap of band-aid and everything will heal without a scar. but, with love, it’s a whole different case, i don’t want broken bones and be left with a bruised heart.

consequences affect outcomes. usually the hands of time struck their deep hidden soul and stir change, not to your desire. upon your demise, a new personality resides a shell of someone you thought you knew. as dawn approaches, you question their validity. who are you? you aren’t my projection of perfection. quite the opposite, perhaps. but you’re powerless, empty hopes invade your thought workings, “maybe he’s in there somewhere, i just have to bring him back.” that’s not happening, change is irreversible. you’re still in love with someone whose rooted down by soil of the past, that person is long gone.

still, you stay.

why, you forgot reasons written on sand washed away by the timidity of the waves. you stay as your heart slowly deteriorates, your mind weakens and soon it can’t think for itself, you’re co-dependent to that longing persuasion. your soul divides into two different section, and one seeps into his rib cages which is running out of space from his altered heart condition- his ego bursting growth. your body shows signs of age from all the stress injected forcefully into your veins, dark circles recede under your fragile skin implanting permanence. now, it’s not only him who you don’t recognize. your mirror reflects a whole persona you can’t seem to process, ‘who is that looking back at me?’ i don’t know, if i, alone have no idea, then who has? tell me, for i’m dying to know. you remain until you’re proclaimed dead, not biologically, but internally. outside, you’re all flesh and bones, but inside, you’re nothing. not a single matter, swept clean. your organs continue to flourish, but you only breathe to exist. not to live.

after:

your other soul fluttered instinctively, gripping a death hold onto his skin, clawing into the inexplicable abyss of his black hole of eyes that sucks any surviving life. so you’ve only got one soul to live, a heart to beat, a scar to heal.

time does wonders though, it almost takes you by surprise sometimes, without realizing, you’ve packed your worthless body into suitcases of new beginnings, retold your story to endless spectators as motivation which also serves as a warning to never allow the wrong one in.

but you never know right?

love is a gamble. russian roulette, unfortunate times, you get shot in the head by a gun you thought you knew so well, a bullet you placed individually to betray your own self.

luckily, experience thought you better, now you know. as you flow into a sea of possibilities, hours turn to months and months evolved into years. you start to breathe again, in (dependence).

there’s no better feeling.

you’ve moved on.

life goes on. 

  1. andromedaftertaste posted this