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He’ll keep some daying and tommorwing until he has no tomorrows left. I don’t choose that.

Stephanie Briar

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Choice Himself Relationship Self Love

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I am strong. My heart still hopes. My mind still dreams. My soul still craves pouring energy into everything that I love.
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“Ashes”, we once thought, but the embers in our eyes might have bought us time.
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Poetry? That’s easy. I just cut the vein, and let it bleed.
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You are what it feels like to watch the final silvers of sun fall and die into the silver ocean; tangerine sky giving way to moon-glow and starlight.
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I don’t know how to put my love down, or to keep holding too much of it.
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I was looking for you in all the places our love used to be. When all along I should have been looking for me.
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Anxiety is living with an apple on your head and you imagine that everyone you know stands watching with a bow to shoot an arrow at it.
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We weren’t written in the stars; all that glitters wasn’t ours.
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As if flesh and skin and hands are any match for bullets. As if bones won’t crack in hails of powder and lead. As if rivers of blood are not the direct result of trigger fingers that bend but do not break on “bad days”.
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Our story bleeds from my eyes until I cannot tell the stars from streetlights.
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Your darkness does not scare me, nor will I run from you; like a star, I’m falling for the phases of your moon.
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Can hope bloom in the shade? Can time give back what it takes away? I once saw the answers to life in your eyes; now I can remember the words to goodbye.
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Some days, my mind will still be in prison, but I will live in spite of it. I unlearn how to swim; I trade my gills for lungs and wings.
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You could not keep me fed by throwing me bones and empty promises. I am ashamed to admit how much starving I did before I finally left.
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If we are what we love, Then I am whatever you are made of.
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