sweaters and night air and distant traffic, and maybe if i try hard enough i’ll find some way of romanticizing it.
eyes half closed. downing another cup of coffee, and pinching my forearm, and hiding in the 12a.m. darkness.
and what does it say about me? that even after all this time, i’m still trying to figure out what’s an illness and what’s just my personality?
i hope this is not my personality. but at the same time, the idea of being separate from it… it terrifies me. because i don’t know who that person is. because i don’t know where i could fly if i could let go of even a fraction of the weight of it.
and on nights like this, i would like to think i am made of stardust. i am wind in your hair and campfires by the ocean, or anything that makes me feel like i’m not hopeless.
i am not the end of the world. i am not panic, or fear, or the deadweight of loneliness.
i am the sunrise. staring back at me in the mirror. because for all the times you were blind to it, the beauty has been there. just waiting for you to notice.