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. 

If you throw one word, I can catch it and make a sentence of a dozen more words. If you throw a sentence towards me, I will string them together like beads and make stories out of them. Give me stories and I will weave them into journeys and the journeys may resemble your reflection in the clear water of the lake...the lake I find myself drowning into every other time. But every time I have trouble breathing the water through my lungs, I try to drown deeper in hopes that perhaps I will lose all sense of where my feet are meant to fall, in hopes that this water turns into life, just once more. 

Dear panic attack,
Is your severity punishment for all the mourning and tears I skipped at her death last year? Punishment for avoiding all the grief very successfully
so then why won't you let me breathe?

LALALALALALALALALA

The convuluted, moldy, crusty and ancient severity of my abandonment issues never ceases to amaze me.

So if anyone else gets a glimpse into how deep-seated, how murky, messy and mired my fear of abandonment is, to the point that it makes them rethink if they have ever truly known any of the people they thought they ever really knew in their life, if, if, if.....

I will tell them that they're telling me something I know already and all too well; that I got there before they did,
that I beat them to it,
and
 that now, I am invincible-- so invincible
that nothing can ever make my fear of abandonment more worse than it already is.

Whoever told us that having fears makes us weak and vulnerable? I'm untouchable. 

You are the Wonder that Keeps the Stars Apart.

Have you lead a strange life if I said that your first kiss was not your first love? If I told you that your first kiss was the first time you felt what it was like to live, because your first love is supposed to do that for you isn't it? But your first love was unfamiliar like your life so far--unfamiliar and awkward and painful, like your first period when the pain and discomfort of simply feeling something for the first time did not let you sleep?
Would it be just as uncomfortable to hear that your first kiss was the most un-first-like you have felt with a first in your life? That the touch of those lips, his teeth clinking accidentally against yours, the wild yet subtle leaps of his tongue inside your mouth, and the nape of his neck was the name you put to familiarity and home? That you finally fell asleep that night, all through the night, because the memory of your first kiss made you think that there is a whole world of serenity, acceptance and safety in someone's pair of arms--- that the scent of someone's breath and the conviction of his teeth biting down on your lip breathes oxygen into your lungs, keeps your heart beating, thumping against your chest even when time seems to have stopped still.
Would your world seem like a fragrant, vast valley of roses, dull, wine-red, romantically, fiercely, passionately, deeply red, red roses when you fall into his arms and breathe in his warm scent? And would your life seem worth living if his kiss, his scent, every sinew in his body promises to you that the word happiness will be meaningful as long as he is in your life, as long as those arms keep opening wide for you to fall back into? Would it be strange to realise in that moment that every time we kiss, it feels like our first, and that he is perhaps the last person I will ever honestly love?

"I carry your heart with me. I carry it in my heart. I am never without it. Anywhere I go, you go, my dear. And whatever is done by only me…is your doing. I fear no fate…for you are my fate, I want no world cause you are my world. Here is the deepest secret no one knows. Here is the root of root and bud of bud & the sky of the sky of the tree of life. Which grows higher than the soul can hope or mind can hide. It’s the wonder that keeps the stars apart.
— E.E. Cummings