i realise,
that your love for me is like a bulb,
full of electricity, warmth and a light that surrounds me filling me,
but eventually, i will become too much,
and that bulb will go out,
and i'll be left to decipher, i loved you but--
i.
the need to be so much more than just your
everything is overwhelming, and selfish,
leaving a guilt like charcoal stains across the
moons that grace my fingernails;
it'salljustmakebelieve--
ii.
i revolve, staring into corners, playing into the open
palms of psychologists and the analysts that long to
decorate my mind with the sparks created from
citalopram, and the doctors that want to lock away
thoughts of love, and leave blank white walls washed
with clinical depression, as my only friends.
iii.
i can imagine the face you'd make, as SSRI's clog my
molecules, whilst forcing and eroding my atoms into
more appropriate compounds.
the once-a-week calls must make it even harder to fathom me
as i tell you quite clearly:
'you don't love me'
'i do silly'
'promise?'
'i promise'
and the bare, fragile notes that cling to my voice-box,
during which my heart makes a break for hope,
and faith plagues my mind,
i don't believe in god any longer,
but i promise you, i believe in you.
iv.
sometimes;
when you're laying beside me, in the darkness and
you fell asleep holding my hand, i mentally rearrange
your room, making it more even, more symmetrical.
more like i belong here, and less like i'm just visiting
isn't life simply monopoly being played with real money?
real dreams, real lives.
except, this doesn't feel real.
v.
nightmares feel more real, more alive, more awake
than reality, than sanity, than this.
we're an orchestra heading towards a crescendo;
i'm always waiting for the crashcrashcrash.
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