wtf why are you reading this shit

so many dicks. I’m scarred for life.

Why should I bother with love, anyway.

Everyone I love will die. You will die. I will die. There is no forever between us. Whatever future we have together will be short lived, non-perpetuating, finite, ended by the inevitable death that comes- of love, or of life.

So why should I bother with love anyway?

Particularly when I’m this miserable being in love.

Particularly when I haven’t spoken to you for days.

Particularly when you don’t even seem to notice.

Particularly when I, even, have stopped noticing.

So why should I bother with love anyway?

(If you can’t answer, love doesn’t exist.)

There are some days when I look back
and see you, and you, and you,
and then I think;
how nice it would be to hold you once again,
and then I think;
how lonely I must feel to look back on you so fondly,
and then I think;
I couldn’t have kept you forever anyway.
Eventually, you will die,
and eventually, I will die,
and there is no heaven after you;

we ended up alone, either way.

-Samantha Benvissuto

Everything about this town makes me miss you.

Terrible, I know. You never loved me. Never would. But every foot, every inch, every centimeter is lined and traced with a memory of you.

Its kind of interfering with my every day life.

Well, only when I’m in this town, anyway.

I thought I had gotten over you, when I moved. New place, new people, new relationships- I was so happy where I was. Never thought of you, not even once. But once I came back to this town, your memories came back with me.

And now I can’t sleep. I can’t eat. I just cry. I cry because I don’t know what I want. I don’t want to go back, but I don’t want to move on. I don’t want to remember, but I don’t want to forget.

There’s too much to keep in my heart.

I remember everything. Your scent. Your kiss. Your laugh. The way you held me, and the way you smiled. The way you’d pick me up from my house, late at night, sneaking out. The way you made me believe you cared.

But you didn’t.

I hate you. I hate what you did to me. Every hurt and every pain you ever pushed on me, every nasty word you said, every slap in the face, makes me wish I never met you. 

But I see you in my dreams.

And in my dreams, you love me.

And everything about this town makes me miss you.

I can write lines-
Only five lines,
Four syllables.
Mother fucker,
I just did it.

(That didn’t make 
me a poet.)

I think poetry really sucks.
there are so many freakin’ rules
and you’re supposed to break them all-
that’s what really gets me, you know?
anything can be a poem,
but I wish people didn’t just
write fucking nonsense all the time.

…fuck poetry, seriously.

You knowing I love you isn’t enough,
not for me- I want, need you to feel it
I want to yell it, scream it- shout it loud.
I want to punch it right into your face
I want to drive to your house and scare you,
scream how much I love you at your doorstep
only to watch you walk right past because,
why did I even do that anyway?
‘Cause I love you, and I’m fucking crazy,
and you are the only thing that matters
because, like I said, I’m fucking crazy
and crazy people in love don’t know any better.

if I could just trace your face with my fingertips,
say how much I love you with the prettiest words,
hold you in my arms, and do nothing else, I would,
but, sad to say, we live in the real world, my love.
there’s no time to be spent on such frivolities.