Woke up writing. First in my head, and then on paper.
Lines and lines of shit I've always wanted to say to you:
A part of me always kept everybody who ever meant something to me within arm's length. I feel like if they went away, so would that part of me. That I would forget and lose that moment of my life forever. And I'm not even the sentimental type. I don't remember dates and I don't keep tokens of moments locked up in a shoebox under my bed. My bed doesn't even have an under. I let go when its its time to. I don't chase after ghosts. I let people slip through my fingers all the time. I've never tightened my grip over anything that didn't want to be held.
But then there are those ones. The ones I held tight, kissed, and then tossed away. The tide keeps bringing them back. They still need me to be there. And so I'm there.
I used to think that maybe it's because I felt like home to them. But it's crazy how quickly people can build a foundation out of anything. So it can't be that. But still. I would like to think that I've left my mark on them. Something real, genuine, and meaningful. Something deeper than lipstick stains and scratch marks on their backs. Maybe it's more like a thumbprint on their brain. On the part that makes them feel safe, warm and satisfied.
But it's this bad habit. I've kept them at an arms length. Let their pins and needles thread through my skin. I never notice they're there until they've climbed back into my arms. I think one day I'll cut them. All of them. Quickly and sadly. Letting them take fragments of me, and us, with them. I know it sounds terrifying and cruel. But maybe there is something beautiful about people taking pieces of you. Maybe there is something kind of wonderful about growing into your missing pieces, while other people piece their broken ones together.
It's dark out so I think I'll try that. I thought about this and I thought about all of you. I can't help where my mind takes shelter.
