happiness isn't what i want, somehow.
it is however what i need—the aching in my lungs to stop and the beating of my heart to polarise but not what i want. not what i crave. not something that could ruin me in ways more than one but still have the power to make me laugh—at my own expense or at the entire situation, i fail to know.
tragedy, now, is what i want.
what i hope for when i lay down in muted comfort at night. i wish for the moisture in my eyes to arrive, wait for the sting of betrayal, wait for a single person to break my conscience and then fix it with the sweet toxicity of their mouth.
the thing with humans is that they pine after poetry. poetic things—pretty girls, busted knuckles, lungs filled with smoke and heartache masked with liquor. poetic things like kissing in the snow and skin marked with fingertips and counting freckles under the stars.
we look for poetry, we all do.
but love isn't poetic.
it is, quite frankly, shit.
it's overrated and mortal, it dies faster than it grows. it ends, it runs out. but we get over it, we centralise our universe in someone else's eyes, we learn to match our breathing to a stranger and we learn to kiss and fall in love all over again.
unrequited love however, is poetic. it's all the tragedy you want and frankly, more than you would need.
it's reassurance and heartbreak, it's windy days and rainstorms, it's the calming waves and a tsunami all at once—and you can deny it, you can pull at your hair and tell yourself you deserve better but you know that a part of you flourishes—it feeds off of this catastrophe.
a part of you disintegrates, it loses trust and compatibility and confidence and certainty and all things good but another part of you—god, another part of you thrives, the part that craves a ballad about despondent heartache and nostalgic rains.
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ooF that was a lot & not really poetry?? but