because your hands are empty anyways.
gripping air like it’s all you know.
it’s the only thing you have or own.
it’s not even yours.
it never was.
desk; bun; dress; cardigan; leggins; rings..;makeup; windchimes..; tired; sad;alone
i just hoped that for once, someone felt like i did.
loved me as much as i loved them.
but it’s 70, 30.. and i’m ALWAYS the 70.
i could adjust that by caring less.
but then we’re 30, 30.. and that’s not passing..
and that’ll be my fault of course.
where can i go that my phone wont work? that there’s no internet.
and i can pretend that the reason i’m not hearing from you is because of those things, because i’ve put myself in that situation, instead of the truth that you don’t care.
that no one really cares.
they care about themselves more than anything.
and i care more about others than myself.. and i hate that.
because i keep trying to change that.
but it means changing who i am.
and it’s nearly impossible.
no matter how much it hurts.
so you can continue to not care..
i’ll continue to worry.
eventually i’ll be dead to you.
or to everyone.
and i’ll be here.. thinking of what i was going to write in my tiny green journal.
the hopes i had that it’d be something sweet. that’d it be on our couch and with babies and things would be perfect for moments through out the day and that i’d have so much happiness i would completely forget that i was ever sad in my life.
i’ve seen it a million times in my mind.
it grows emotionally, but physically gets smaller.
putting my hair in a ponytail or feeling my forhead.
it all fades.
and there’s no babies.
no home you build.
no you.
only me.
that’s all i have, only me.
you don’t care.
i shouldn’t either.
so fine. i’ll quit. and die a little more. again.
i’ve done it so many times i have nothing left.
just, me.
quiet hollow me.
don't read this 