Wrong.

Everything feels wrong today.


I guess it's that low mood I get in when I've been drinking the night before.
I feel like I'm doing the wrong things;
that I should just go ahead and DO it, even if I'm not sure yet,
that I'm saying the wrong words,
that I'm not good enough,
that I don't try hard enough,
that I should be alone,
that I want to hide away and just sleep.
Do I disappoint you?
My feelings are all askew and I can't seem to direct them the right way; the good ones I know to be there the rest of the time won't stick.
And I feel bad about EVERYTHING.


It's like every inch of me is tingling with this feeling of wrong.

Perfect.

Warm sun seeping though the window
Creases in the bedsheets
and the soft sound of breathing.
You sleepily reach for me
and we lie
skin on skin
arising from dreams.


Steaming tea
and the sound of sizzling
and I'm always in my slippers
and it's fun to always eat the same thing
because it becomes something 
we just do.


Under covers
touching me
I just want to be as 
close as we can be
with you looking down at me
and our bodies pressed together
and I feel perfect.

I wish I was extraordinary enough.

It was not supposed to be that deep.
It gaped open, pale and sickly, the sides pulled apart by the force of it all.
I could see inside, and it made me feel nauseated.
Seeping over the side, the colour spills out and for a second I panic.
I don't want to look at it.
It was not supposed to be that deep.

Fears.

So here are my fears, as they are now, written in the most inexplicit way:


Empty chasm.
Sides splitting.
Oppressive weight, and undeterred, panicked thoughts.
Pressure on the inside of my skull - what to do with it all?
Unfamiliar, terrifying, and just me.
Attacks, alone - how will I cope?
Will I manage?


Will it be without me?
The mood, the place, the effects of whatever it is, a split second's thoughtlessness...
Every muscle clenching, struggling to breathe.


I don't know, I don't know, I don't know.

All This I Must Not Forget.

I feel lonely tonight, and I wish you were here.
I spent the last three nights with you, but you were distracted. It wasn't your fault; you needed to work, and I'm glad you did. I just want your company.


I look at you sometimes and wonder how I came to be so lucky to have you.
You ask me what I am thinking and I reply, "I love you," but it is so much more than that.
I am grateful for the way you interlock your fingers with mine, and the feeling of the harder patch of skin in the middle of your palm under my fingertips, for the softness of your voice and for your tenderness.
For the way you kiss me, and all the times you hold me.
For laughing at my ridiculousness instead of finding me embarrassing. 
For not ever shouting, for dispelling my worries, and for meeting any problems I have gently, and with reason.
For your intelligence, your thoughtfulness, your honesty, your brilliance, your humour, your calmness, and your ability to talk about anything.


I am not under the illusion that you are perfect. No one is perfect, but you are close to it. 
And no, I am not stuck in some little romantic fantasy in my head, seeing everything tinted with the rosy haze of love. I have loved people who are far, far from perfect. I am perfectly capable of distinguishing between good and bad. That is why I am so amazed to have you. 


Every moment with you I feel the need to capture, to preserve in my memory, to never forget. I need to remember, for always, that this is how it should be. Having it drilled into my head that I'm a bad person and deserve to be treated as such has had its effect. I have to keep reminding myself that going from such bad treatment to the opposite end of the scale IS something I deserve, and I should not feel otherwise.

Our feet always touching before we sleep if we are faced away from each other in bed.
Your lips on my cheek, my forehead, my nose, and my lips.
Your fingertips brushing my face.
Your fingers running through my hair.
The smell of your skin.
The warmth of our bodies entangled together under the covers.
Your smile.
The smoothness of your skin.
The way your eyes show emotion.
The feeling of you inside me, how you can be no closer.
Your look of concern.
The way you grasp me when you are sad.
Your voice and how it instantly calms me.
Your laugh.
Your sincerity.
The way you walk.
The sound of you beat-boxing.

The way you bite your lip.
Your skin against mine.


All these memories that I must retain.

They thought it was over.

They didn't think that the words would stick to the inside of my head like a sickly mess of syrup and tar.
The thoughts crushed my lungs silent and still.
They thought it was gone because I looked as if it had gone, with my smile barely cracking at the corners.
They don't ask any more because the words disappeared but my brain kept screaming obscenities at the inside of my skull. 
And I'm listening.


They thought it was gone because I was different, but half of me wishes so bad that I could get it back. I'm not really sure I want it to stay but...


...I don't want it to go.