I can't remember the age that i was, but not that story that pumped in my blood, when you were the savior, and I was the taker of, oh where i was

I don't talk about pain anymore.
Because saying things out loud makes them so much more real.
Because I'm sick of people calling me perfect.
I'm sick of lace, and glitter, and silk. And the way my skin feels when it's cold. I'm sick of beauty and power and knowing that when I smile just right, it'll make your heart melt. Or if I touch you right above your collarbone with the warmth of my lips, your toes go numb.
& I don't want to know I can't handle this, and I don't want to know how far the fall is down. I hate being told I'm beautiful, because I know you're not seeing what's inside. You'd turn away and crumple to the floor in pain if you did.

I'm not perfect. I'm really nothing special. I'm just the normal girl next door. But not the kind you see in movies or read about in your porno mags. I have way too dark bags under my eyes from lack of sleep and too much fat on my body than I care to discuss with you. I wish you could just see the real me for just one second. And not the girl that you think I am. Sometimes I feel like we're both so caught up in this idea of being in love again that we forget that this takes just a little bit of work. I feel like you're just into the idea of me, and not the actual person. I know you care, but sometimes it doesn't seem that way. Which I suppose you could say about me as well. We'll live.

I had a dream about a man, with large delicate hands and hard eyes that hit you harder at a glance than dead on. And when he kissed your cheek, leaned in and let his fingertip brush your skin he could see inside you, and it hurt so bad. It felt wonderful. Chills down your spine, and everyone else got them. But never saw him.
He showed me what was inside. And I told him about how I tried to cut my face off, peel it off rather like they do in plastic surgery and he smiled knowingly. We don't talk about things like that, now do we. (When you're sitting in your room, with nothing but sheets on your bed. And you're thinking about using your one possession to end it. But you know you can't, and you're thinking about how no one's there and everyone that could be, isn't. And the only one that can't, should be.)

Too many people I know are complaining about needing to get out. To move on in life and travel the roads and see the sights. The problem is, all you're doing is complaining and not actually DOING it.

To anyone that plans to leave, just leave and don't let anyone know.
Because if you're leaving for the goodbyeattention you're not leaving for the right reasons at all. When I leave, don't expect a goodbye.
When I tell you I love you.
You wont get affection.
♥