I am wrong.
I am sorry.
I spend too much time listening to Los Campesinos, like somehow the words they string together will fix this aching heart.
they don't, but i try harder.
so they sing to me,
"You walk in from your mother's balcony
Panda-eyed and freezing cold
You bury yourself in my chest to warm
I notice the goosebumps on your arms, millions
And whether it's because of the numbers of hours spent laid facedown on my bed listening to white noise, or, well, obviously it's not, I somehow manage to translate them from braille"
I shudder, I shiver, I listen deeper as though his words will soothe me.
they never do.
i feel the cold move through my body, prickling up the goosebumps on my own arms.
i breathe in, exhale.
smoke trails from the cigarettes i've been smoking nonstop.
so much for quitting, this is the third pack in a day and a half.
I am wrong
I am sorry.
I blame you for my shortcomings. That isn't fair.
I am a shitty, shitty boyfriend. I have been and always will be.
It is smart to remain detached.
i remove myself from my body, watch it crumble into the thousand pieces i have been trying to keep it from.
i am sick, i am small.
i am tired, i am frail.
i am not the man you thought you fell in love with.
i am not the man i used to be.
i am not a bright-eyed boy.
i see the wrong in the world and know i cannot change it.
a day is no longer a fresh start, just a quiet, sullen awakening.
I listen to iron and wine, as though it will soothe me.
it only makes me cry.
same with sufjan stevens.
i am a mess of empty threats and bruises.