“sir, I have concerns, for your heart”

“Doctor gave it a clean bill, just in winter.”

“Not the function. The temperature. I fear it has gone cold.. since “serenity”, sir. Since you stopped going.”

“I know of no such place.”

“so it seems”

“you have a point?”

“without it, without her, you have not been yourself as, as i know you. What you spied sharply escapes notice. And what gave you pause, doesn’t. And without the countervalence of warmth, you’ve grown mean, sir. And I don’t know how to serve this cold Silas. And my duty is to protect the family.”

One after another.

It doesn’t end, does it?

I reread all the gay romantic stuff I used to write and wondered if I’ll ever have that kind of faith to feel that way again. It seems like for the past few months I got bitter and angry and I couldn’t feel the way I felt when I wrote all these. All I care about is scientific writing now. And it sucks. I (sort of) miss being able to feel nice feelings instead of.. bitterness and anger.

If one of us died we’d take a week to find out. That’s what we are. We are one week. We are ash-coloured memories of the past six days. We are five right fingers wrapped in five left ones. We are Day Four of an Explosions In The Sky album. We are three songs away to our very next kiss. We are two different people with one stolen glance. We are stuck in a week between past heartaches and future heartbreaks. We are a week away and you’re the only day I look forward to.

I wished, for a second, that you’ll tell me one last time you’re gonna change.

But anyway, thanks for letting me go.

“You want blood? Come here and take it. It’s fresh, still warm from the life that left it – the blood of my brother. Take his blood and call it enough. If you need more, take mine. Do it. I surrender; shoot me and call it enough. Or can one of you come down here and show me your face? Show me that you’re more than tank, metal and shell – that you’re human like we are – that you breathe, that you bleed, that you feel and feel pity – that you live for more than our deaths. Come, any of you who have lost a brother. Come and tell me it’s enough.”

Tell me,

who sleeps on my side of your bed now?

Things have changed so much within the past 1.5 years. I’m slowly realising that I’m no longer the same girl I was back then. I’ve stopped the drama, the havoc, the insane warped justifications for the things I do…

.. and realised that I’m the most comfortable when I am myself instead of some other social identity I was trying to have.

This is me. I’ve dropped every last bit of the pretense. Take it or leave it.

I’ve been watching your world from afar

I’ve been trying to be where you are

And I’ve been secretly falling apart.

Don’t want a thing from you,

I’m going out, don’t care if you’re angry.

I should have thought things through,

I’m holding out, not getting any answers.

Pretend you don’t know me so well,

I won’t tell if you lie.