Staying.

i’m often undeserving of the love my friends give me. so completely unconditional, filled with such deep warmth that i cannot imagine how life would be without them.

i’ve learned to always pick carefully when i want to have people in my life. that knowing they’re the ones that’ll constantly guide me will be enough for my heart to fill part of it’s emptiness. i’m sure enough that love isn’t always what i think it is. it’s always more than just romance.

it’s like a deep connection, a bond that may or may not eventually break into two. but the memories you share, the worlds that you make together are always there, floating in the air, making it easy to reminisce about the days you spent crafting each other’s energies into one.

i know that this may not make sense, but when a friend leaves, the hurt will always stay. the hurt of a breakup will fade, but when a friend leaves, it’s like a small part of your soul has been chipped off. like the universe is carving your soul into something but the pain of the incision will always remain.

they go so easily, you see. disappear like they never meant anything to you. you see them around sometimes. you really don’t know who they’ve become. that’s the funny part about all this, the fact that when they leave you, you have no idea how they could change so much.

i imagine that broken friendships drift off into another universe. that there they prosper, unlike they did here. some people are toxic, so we raise the roof with joy that they have left us, but can’t help but feel a twinge of pain every time they’re mentioned to us. it’s almost funny how the same thing happens when you hear the name of an ex, who seems to be happy and you seem to… well not.

it’s always full circle, that’s what life is. an up and a down, a loss and a gain. you always lose someone to gain someone. i have lost many. but those i have gained and those who have stayed are those my heart will forever be indebted to.

that’s what love is, i think. staying.

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Fallacy.

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I’ve been wondering how you have the ability to recklessly judge my character,

When you know my world revolves around your opinion,

When I’m ready to beg at your feet;

You tell your friends that you don’t want to be with that type of girl,

And I was confused because I didn’t think I was anyone but myself,

That I was some sort of reckless fallacy,

But you did.

All you could tell me,

All you could say was that my actions were a bullet in your heart,

Yet you knew it was you who shattered my soul,

And I believe that you would take me back if I stopped giving my body away,

But you never did.

 

And the irony was that the same boy who would beg for my body,

Would hate me if another did,

And that somehow I was at fault for being promiscuous,

That what I did with my body was for society to determine,

But it’s not.

 

And so now that you can’t look me in the eyes,

Know that my body was never yours,

And it never will be;

Because I’d rather be a fallacy than deal with your never-ending tragedy,

And even though I loved you,

I think I know better now.

Impulsive.

He’s too shy to tell you. He’s got a heart that blazes for every inch of you, but he will never tell you of how his mind is seeped with thoughts of the sweet nectar that you speak, of the waves that ripple through your hair, of the love that he wants but is too afraid to ask for. 

He’s never going to tell you. You look through your conversations as if this time he’s going to tell you that he loves you but you know those words will never leave his soul. He’s trapped in his own worst fear, and you solemnly acknowledge that even if you say something, he’d never say anything back.

We’re all too scared to tell the people we love how we feel. We’re always hesitating, as if anything bad could ever come from giving love to people instead of the hate that is prevalent in this dismal world. 

Rejection is our only fear, it is the only barrier that keeps us away from bliss and it is tiring. It’s tiring that he won’t tell you how he feels, or that she didn’t kiss you when she had the chance, because what if we stop being friends? What if the whole world finds out?

It’s as though letting people know our happiness is a disaster, but it seems to have become so, and there’s nothing we can do. As though life could end if people found out about the truth, as though there’s a death wish in being passionate. 

There is nothing and no one that can discount your feelings except for you, because when will you realise that love is fickle but it’s meant to be, and if you don’t say something now, you probably never will. 

It’s never been difficult to be impulsive in anger. Why should it be difficult in brazen, unapologetic and beautiful love? 

It shouldn’t.