i am not real , but you were

57

and somehow, still, on the late night drives home from your house, I still find tears slipping down my face, into my mouth, down to my collarbones. and somehow, still, I wonder why I ever thought I could be every ounce of happy I've ever dreamed of. I will never not be haunted by the ghosts that live behind my eyelids, that whisper death threats in my ears. but somehow you know this, and you still choose to stay, you choose to like me, you choose to want to be with me. why? why would you ever want to surround yourself with a being so torn, a being so broken, so utterly fucked up? why would you decide 'she's the one I want to call mine,' when I cannot even muster a smile on some days, when I cannot stop my hands from itching, or my mind from running. why am I still scared you'll leave, even though you've decided to stay? I am so fearful of the words you might speak about me, about the cold sayings you'll let drip from your mouth, like an oil spill of pain and hatred. I am afraid of my feelings for you, because they've grown so much, so fast, and I don't think you can keep up. I don't think you'll fully understand the amount of joy you fill my heart with, sometimes it even blocks out the pain that will always linger. I am afraid that I have felt too fast, and I don't know when or if you'll be able to catch me. I am miles, light years, eons away, and yet you still stay.

and yet, you still stay.

and yet, you still stay.

why do you stay?

why do I stay?

not 'why do I stay with you,' but rather, 'why do I stay alive?'

why do I stay?