11:11

wish twenty-three

       Comparing the clothes on the floor to the mess in your head just fills me with feathers as dark as a crow, dying and shedding away its jet colors to the pale pavement underneath its webbed feet. When will you pick up these things around you? Will you will start to notice the people pushing you to be better, faster, grow into a dreamer?

       Instead you sit and mope about what others think of you, what they say about you. Whenever I am lost, my letters spill out on the keys, blending in with the tears as my head spins and drills itself to the promises of the light shining through the holes of the clothes. But you? I am afraid of you. I am afraid that you’re a leaver while I fall to my knees on the battlefield, fighting to stay because why? Because my head is stuck in the clouds while my body floats in the sea. I’m a dreamer.

       I wish I was a nightmare instead; you know, the one who scares others instead of hiding in the fright of hopeless memories tugging at its sleeve. Is it too much for me?

       Should I act like you? Disappear one day, not acting like you even care what happens to the one you love the next? Then reappear with apologies coating the lies and the stench of hatred? Should I?

       Because you give me no choice. I wish I was dead.