gravity (first draft) | July 2014
i learned the hard way that caffeine is not a substitute for sleep
and that i am addicted to the way you feel on my eardrums
and that i can't make myself disappear completely without dying.
you are a cold day in august with overcast skies
you are midnight and six in the morning and mid-afternoon.
you are the cracks in the ceiling and the stars in the sky
the smell before rain and thunder and lightning
electric and erratic and terrifying.
you are a blank slate and a new beginning
and i am screaming heart attacks and dry heaving suicide notes
at four in the morning.
i walk holes in my shoes daily like it’ll fix my insides
and knit every broken thing back together
while you saturate my mind with your intensity.
when we met, my veins were leaking loneliness
hemorrhaging bad ideas and harboring secrets.
hiding.
you were my safest place.
and rumor had it that drinking bleach would kill the thoughts in my head.
your words were amnesia.
my head forgot how to make me feel empty
when i wrote your name at the top of the next blank page in my journal.
i didn’t give a fuck about gravity
until i fell into your orbit.