grave-diggers-problems

[grave-diggers-problems]

“I love you,” you shouted with a laugh from your car window to mine. I said it back, but you didn’t hear me. It’s alright, I’ll say it a hundred times more, a thousand, every day till I die.

How else can I thank you? I’m afraid you’ll think I’m crazy if I try. But this ache burns right down to my diaphragm. It consumes my chest, my lungs, up my throat. I think I’ll choke on it. I’m choking on it now.

It hurts, it hurts, it hurts.

Do you even know how much? I never thought I’d be so pathetic. Not in my lifetime. I never thought I’d crave the feel of your hands, work-rough and warm on my face. I always hated when people touched my face. I never thought I’d seek out your smell on my shirt after you leave.

I’m terrified of you.

Terrified.

Look what you’ve done to me already! My teeth ache with it. It takes all I am to not scare you away.

Please don’t let me scare you away.

[grave-diggers-problems]

I pray you find a part of me that is worth loving.

[grave-diggers-problems]

My chest aches like I’m dying.

You’re parting my sternum with your words, honey-sweet.

Cracking it right in two, rotting straight through the bone. Prying me open, making me bleed.

Inside I’m a cavern, all rock and salt, pointing spindly fingers in every direction. There is no soft carpet of moss, or blanket of leaves. This place is hard, untouched, buried deep.

It hurts, it hurts, it hurts.

I want to stay cold, but you’re sliding your sun-warmed fingers between my ribs. I forgot to tell you to stop.

You say you love the crystals, I’ve never seen them. I hope you do. I hope you see them. I hope they’re there.

I hope, I hope, I hope.

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And I’ll brush my teeth till I bleed

If that makes me clean

If that makes me right.

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swim out to sea,

let the loneliness rot.

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The hardened version of me is not bad

she is just different

[grave-diggers-problems]

Andrea Gibson, Lord of the Butterflies

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Please slit my perfect throat The knife that I gave you When I told you I loved you in my home

[grave-diggers-problems]

"I stay awake at night because I don't even know what my favorite color is and I'm afraid I don't have a real personality."

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Mom, would you wash my back? This once, and then we can forget And I'll leave

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You told me once that I always bite the hands that feed me.

Were the hands that fed not also the ones that hurt?

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[grave-diggers-problems]

I'd bleed for you, if you held me

But don't hold me. I'm too afraid to bleed.

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