"you're someone else's saving grace."

you are not mine to save. you are worthy of too much more than that. you're an uncut diamond, already glimmering with potential and I am but a slave with my hands cut over and over by the words of your master. don't look at me and beg me to save you. you're not mine to save. you're not mine to save. you're not mine to save.

you're a verse in a song I've turned cliche, you're a line in a story I've inked across hipbones and wrists and you're my 5AM thoughts. when you smile, I see you breaking. when you laugh, I hear you choking. but I can't help but wonder if I let my touch burn onto your skin the way your gaze are open bullet wounds on my temple, if I could be somehow belong to you in the way the rain belonged to the sky; beautiful, necessary but temporary. until you need me again.

I want to interlock your fingers in my ribcage and feel my heart constrict in your hands, where it has felt safest. the same way you grip a balloon the tightest right before it bursts — all air and nothingness in your face. I can't be your balloon, your trip to Nirvana, your flying house over every adventure. because my hands don't fit around you the way they should and your arms slip around me too easily. I cannot save myself. and I cannot save you; how can I save someone who wants to think they love me? no. you're not for my fingers to caress, not for my gaze to hold. your name is not for my lips to wrap around like a prayer. I cannot save you.

you are not mine to keep and I am not yours to save. not when you're someone else's saving grace.

"my life is a shitty job she had never been poor enough to keep."

- dina xx

addicted

there's a heartbeat somewhere, hidden beneath the sobs and the darkness. there's a figure, and I can't quite make out what it is, but it follows me. and it's haunting. and it's beautiful. I can't help but notice that the chair by my bedside is empty, as it has been for awhile now. there are lies that are tattooed upon my face that people can't see. there's the sound of a shriek somewhere inside of my head. there's a heartbeat. there's a a sob. there's a scream. and then comes the deafening silence. and it's over. before it starts again. these soundwaves have found homage on the crease on my wrist, on the skin that molded into the bones of my arm.

tell me about your pain, but make it pretty. let yourself cry in pretty mascara stains down your cheeks and a song in your sleep. let the darkness swallow you but only after everyone has gone to sleep because no one wants to see you like this.

and you are addicted to the pain. to the plea. to the torture, to the mercy.

"the difference between an addict and one who is drowning is that the one who is drowning knows it. the addict will drink the sea until it becomes him."

- dina xx