Aren't you sick of me yet?

Perfection is the stuff of dreams. If this is true, then I'm having a nightmare. I never knew perfect sadness is possible. You can't be perfectly sad. There has to be a bit of happiness in there somewhere. Or so I used to believe. The world loves to prove you wrong. It has a sick sense of humor. I am perfectly sad. Perfect sadness is the stuff of nightmares. I know of nightmares very well. I have chosen not to sleep tonight. I don't know when sleep will come. It's the dreams I fear. That's where I see him, all the time, in so many different ways. Compared to things other people have experienced, other griefs, other pains, other sufferings, mine does not compare. This is only a broken heart. This is only disappointment. This is only the pain I feel because I think things are unfair. I thought I was special. I wanted to be special. But I think he kissed her, and he hugged her for such a long time. Longer than he did me. And I realized the truth. I am not special. I am

Let's pretend forever started tomorrow. I promised you my hand. Promised to hold yours, tighter when we turn corners. I never know what comes, but I swore I'll bear it. Let's pretend I'm fine. There's tears on the table, on the floor, the tips of quill pens I use to write to you. There's red on wishes. There's blue on waking dawns. And there's gray, everywhere. Let's pretend it's not real. The lumps in my throat. The taste of your lips. The warmth of your skin. The unbearable pain no razor can silence. Let's pretend I don't care. I want you to connect the lines on my left palm. It's so cold. There's chains of screaming silence. Look into my eyes. It's desperation. Insanity. Gut-wrenching loneliness. Let's pretend it's not true. I lie to myself every day. I laugh with a tear-streaked face and pretend I'm hoarse from endless chatting. Things like this don't happen to good people. I'm naughty, remember? Let

She hugs him tight under the covers and waits for him to come around. Little twitches of his fingers and his uniform breathing tells her it's not going to be anytime soon. So she waits. And waits. And couldn't wait any longer. She gets up quickly and turned back, checking to see if her movements woke him up. No such luck. She steps off the bed and winces as her feet touches the cold floor. Where are my clothes? After much searching she finds her shirt underneath the bed and her sleeping shorts nowhere in sight. She settled for his boxers and decided it looks better on her. She gives him a little peck on the lips, opens the bedroom door and steps out. *image fades* The new high heels she just bought are killing her, but it's a small price to pay for looking as nice as she is tonight. It's a special day for a special someone, and she has to look good for him. There will be many important people tonight. Looking her best is a must. She wouldn't want to let him down. &

Shh.. Don't tell anyone. Come closer. I have secret I want to tell you. It's important you don't tell a soul. This is just for you, from me. Now listen. I can barely wake up in the morning. My alarm is a rather annoying song and it plays continuously until I actually bash the button that stops it. Every morning at 7 am. But I'd wake up anytime to watch you sleep. I spend hours looking through recipes on the internet and at least one hour in the supermarket looking for things to cook for you. I'll then slave over a stove and spend a majority of my day making something while praying that it would at least be remotely edible, if not actually tasting good. Then I'll act as if it was something I did at the last minute with no premeditation whatsoever, and tell you that I've made something for you. You don't have to pick it up if you're too tired. It's fine. I'll just bring it to lunch tomorrow. Or something. No biggie. If I know you're going t

It's always cold here where I live. Always. Any attempts to warm up is futile. I've tried everything. There are no longer wooden furniture in the house. I've exhausted all my matches. They've all burned. All of them. I've burned them. Everything. I sleep in tatters and what remained of my clothing. I can't afford to burn what little I have left. Besides, there's no use. Not since she's gone. There are holes in the walls where the windows used to be. The door doesn't even exist anymore. I sleep between four standing walls and under a roof that's a lame excuse for one. There's nothing to stop the wind from chilling me to my bones but my two gaunt arms and folded legs, cowering in the furthest corner of the room. These days I wonder when the chill will take me away. Despite the cold I wake up sweating at night, screaming. Sometimes I find my tears on the tile floor and I stay up all night with my hands in them, wondering how so much water can co

There's this certain strange sensation when you wake up in the morning with someone else in your bed. Someone of the opposite sex. Someone you've been intimate with the night before. Someone who has seen you completely naked and not minding it one bit. Someone who's looked at you with your clothes on and said, "Hey. Let's take these off and have a bit of fun shall we?". Someone you've seen completely naked and you can't seem to take your eyes off, even when they're completely clothed. But this is not about sex or nakedness. This is about the morning after. This is about reading faces in slumber, wondering what they're dreaming. It's about touching cheeks, lips, ears, chest, wondering if it carries into their dreams, if it's you they see in them. It's about putting your arms around them and being warm. It's about the absurd feeling that if the world ends today, you'll be fine with it because you're here, and they're h