Paranoia

Do you miss me when we're apart?

I hope so.

The anxiety squeezes my heart with a trembling fist, accompanied by swelling paranoia. Yes. I am paranoid and for good reason. Our world is fragile and even the softest breath can cause it to shatter. I think everyone feels lonely sometimes. Its easy to feel lonely, if you take the time to think about it. You can feel lonely when you detach your mind from the light and allow darkness to cradle you. The darkness is comforting, but it allows poison to trickle into your bloodstream; you don't even notice. The worst kind of loneliness is when you're surrounded by people but it seems as if you're drowning in a sea with no faces.

I was going to wait to talk about you, but I can't get you out of my thoughts. I can taste you on the tip of my tongue, I can feel you on the edges of my skin, and I can sense you at the core of my bruises. Not real bruises. The only bruises I have I inflicted myself. No, you leave bruises on my heart and in my brain. When you say goodbye, or when you make me question everything. I don't know what I'm doing. The warnings keep coming; little red lights that flash across your face and blur your animal smile. There are warnings in your movements and they way you sometimes kiss me with your cruel blue eyes open.

I've been falling apart a lot lately, and often times in more than one way. I hate being alone but at the same time I can't stand being around people. It's confusing and fucked up and I'm tired. That's it. I'm tired. Everything would be so much easier if you would stop doubting that I love you. I know what you're thinking, and how you hide away from the world. All these people think they know you, but they don't. They don't know you like I do. I know how you sometimes shy away from me because you think you don't deserve me, and that you're content in your bitterness. Its funny, because you can lie to yourself but you can't lie to me.

I push you away a lot. Then again, you push me away too. Maybe we're both too broken to be mended. I find parts of myself in you and often times they're parts I don't want to recognize. I'm a coward and I allow the shadows to leak from the corners, slicing little fears into my skin. You saw the fresh lines but you didn't ask why. I wanted you to but I'm glad you didn't. I can still trace the ghost memories on your arms where you did the same thing, felt the same pain I did. I've gotten better. Most of the reminders have faded; tragic shades of silver and violet. But sometimes I crave the blood and the metal kisses are sweeter than yours.

I could keep writing but I'm falling apart again. Do these words even mean anything? Do they mean anything to the people reading this, to you, to me, to anyone? I've decided it doesn't matter. Nothing really matters anymore. You can't give my heart back; it's too mangled. It's a bloody stitched up mess, but you keep smearing the pieces on my ribcage, reminding me this affection is only temporary reminding me reminding me reminding me reminding me remind me.