I regret that I was not the one to pen these words

I don't know who wrote this but I found this on Berlin Artparasites and I found myself resonating with and within each word and it hit me suddenly that I have stopped writing, writing in the true sense of meaning...

"I’m not good at words so my love isn’t poetry. It’s silly notes in secret places. It’s pointing out every beautiful thing I see so you can see it too. It’s waiting up hours to hear if you got home safe because I worry about you. It’s in lavender nights and making you tea and waiting for you to come with me to see movies and in telling you the parts of my day that made me happy and giving you every tiny gift I think might make you smile for a second like smooth rocks and cool leaves and it’s in letting you choose the radio station and in us together slowly healing. It’s in small quiet things but I promise. I will love you to the end of my being."
— r.i.d//inkskinned

Minus 9

It's only been nine days since I gave myself 27 days to challenge death, but I'm already drained of every little drop of blood called will in my body to live. I can see myself losing myself to I don't even know what but something other than me is winning, winning by strong margins...  Sometimes I think that something is just another me but who knows?

My least favourite.

Dear Self(ish),
Somedays you love me. Some days you don't. On other days nobody loves you. In the past nobody loves you. Today I love you in the morning but I forget you by the evening... so I will never really know if I do love you tonight.
Today I reject you. Today I despise you and your need to love you.
A few days later I have a death wish.
In between one of these Days of Least Love, I want to fulfill my wish and give myself the only gift I ever wanted from me. In between one of these days of Least Love I give me 28 days and 27 nights to fill me full of my desire.

Love,
Deathless and Undesiredly Lifefull.