it feels like every week i can't focus too tired too stressed a thousand things running through my head the week ahead the week behind like every week i look back i look around i look up and wonder what they have that i don't what i'm missing what i'm doing wrong to feel so alone and lost and afloat i tell myself -- every week -- "this is just a bad week. it is okay to just have a bad week." but every week is a bad week every week there's something wrong and i pray every single day for trust and for contentment and for letting go of control so where is the fulfillment? where is the answer? why am i still here every week heart beating faster and faster my breath going in and out and in and out in quick quick quick quick time beat if every week is a bad week where are the good weeks? where are the good weeks? --2.14.21
she upholds me. she encourages me. when i fall, she picks me up. she's perfect. her hair is as black as midnight, her eyes are the color of a tree in autumn--not quite green, not quite brown--and her smile reaches up to the corners of her eyes and fills me with joy. she's taller than i am and when i hug her it's like i'm hugging the human embodiment of, well, a hug. she's beautiful just the way she is, with all the pain she holds inside and all the hurt she feels. she's so very talented and she makes me cry with the way she writes about the ones she loves. she bottles up the feelings inside, but when she lets them flow they create some of the most beautiful masterpieces i've ever read. when i'm crying, when i'm emotionally compromised, when it's been a terrible day or week, she'll listen to me. i look to her when i hurt, and she tells me to look heavenward. she's wonderful, amazing, beautiful. i remember one of the wors...
i hope this will be the last post about you. the last post where i let out my emotion before stifling it. my mom asked me what i liked about you. i had to tell her that i couldn't remember; it had been so long since i allowed myself to feel things about you. i still love you, you know. i'm saying it because i know you'll probably never read this. i got tired of late nights and early mornings spent crying because i still miss you. you're the one my mind goes to when i'm lonely, or sad, or angry, or falling asleep, or waking up. i love and hate the memories we've made. the feeling of your hand in mine. your hands are so rough and masculine and they made mine feel girly, which was nice. the way you'd look at me and i could feel your eyes but i didn't know where to look because what do you do when someone looks at you like you're the stars in heaven? the warmth and steadiness of you when you'd hold me. that first time, i'd never fe...
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