Write me

Things I need to live without are hard-to-swallow pills. All I could be is a fraction of me; thus, all that is left is the epilogue of a book that I couldn’t write—a life that I couldn’t live. 

Rarely does excitement pump in my body—existing is not as good as just living like a simplified phrase. I want to be looked up in a dictionary—search for me in an old bookshop and be the shadow cat of curiosity. 

Nothing ever helped me but poetry—it was never once beautiful; it was always just war. Her body shakes like a wild sea—full of range, full of fright. I can’t love life every day, and there’s no one who could love it for the days that I can’t—that’s what makes my spine throb.

 I’d always be the twisted I wish I could see in the world. To be where everyone is, I’ll always be a traveler who belongs in a country somewhere. 

I just let my words eat me alive—like maggots in the skull of an idealist. As odd as it seems, the unfortunate was born in the mind of a shameful sinner.