I’ve been sleepwalking for days, in and out of a bitter reality that I created myself.

My heart is heavy and drenched with the drops of truth that fall from my intense star-crossed whispers.

I don’t even know if I can continue on.

They tell me that they love my honesty, and that my soul is beautiful.

But what happens when the one person that you want to think that—doesn’t?

Does any of it hold meaning? Or is it all lost in a graveyard of misshapen chaos and ill tended dreams?

Maybe there is no such thing as destiny or fate.

Maybe I have only invented what was there to explain what I feel, but if I am the only one to feel it—then maybe it doesn’t really exist at all.

I don’t want poems dripping in honey—but I do crave to know the words behind your eyes, the intentions behind your kisses, and the fears behind your touch.

I have asked for nothing, and gotten close to nothing in return—but maybe that is the point of it all.

Sometimes I wonder when the Queen Anne’s lace blows her seeds of despair across my faded eyes if I am destined to be alone forever.

Maybe those who feel love the most, and who can talk about love in ways most people only feel it—maybe we are destined to remain unloved ourselves.

For honesty and beauty are wonderful, but it seems most can’t take a life like that every day.

I run as intense as bootleg moonshine in the middle of an electric storm.

I know this, yet, I can’t undo it—not that I would want to anyway.

Some things just are.

I was born into a world I didn’t fit in too, not knowing how to be anything but myself.

And so I bite my lip until the metallic taste of blood spills out, and I once again am the manufacturer of my own pain.

Sometimes I grow weary of being the continual optimist.

I grow exhausted from finding possibility in despair.

And so I decide to just sit with this—as is.

I will not rush to fix it, or to pretend that I am not hurt.

Instead I will fade into the background as fog into the early morning hours of a summer day.

I’ll become the hush to your whisper, and the blink of your lash—and I’ll be gone.

~

Relephant Read:

For the Love of the Game: to the Men that Always Want what they Can’t Have.

~

Author: Kate Rose

Editor: Alli Sarazen

Photo: Jack.Less/Flickr