are you aware the shape i'm in?

; ; ;

"you're in a car with a beautiful boy, and he won't tell you that he loves you, but he loves you. and you feel like you've done something terrible, like robbed a liquor store, or swallowed pills, or shoveled yourself a grave in the dirt, and you're tired. you're in a car with a beautiful boy, and you're trying not to tell him that you love him, and you're trying to choke down the feeling, and you're trembling, but he reaches over and he touches you, like a prayer for which no words exist, and you feel your heart taking root in your body, like you've discovered something you didn't even have a name for." –richard siken

; ; ;

Daily routines make things bearable.

I cry.

I smoke. I subsequently waste three seconds thinking about quitting smoking.

I run out of tears.

Blood. Is that my blood? That might be some of my blood.

Vodka gets miserable after the first several times. Cancel. Cancel that.

I end it with coffee to drown out all the rest.

; ; ;

There are days when the routine itself starts to get old.

I start to run out of reasons to continue.

Quitting life seems plausible.

Almost as plausible as quitting smoking, but not quite.

; ; ;

Sometimes when I cry, I cry for you and the people you know along with the people they don't know, because somewhere out there there's another me and another you and another world where 'we' could change into 'us'.

I cry for the people I don't know but the people they do know, because like I know you, they know someone who may just love someone who knows another someone, too. And if they love them like I love you it's a shame that there's no pain to be gained since I've spent forever chasing you - but do you have a single clue? I wish I could set a building on fire for you, you on fire for you, me on fire for you.

I'm praying that you know someone who knows another someone who may love me, too, and it'd be beyond my vocabulary to describe what I'd feel if that someone happened to be you.

If any particular someone reaches me in time, though, it'd still be a sight to see because some days when I cry I bite my tongue so hard to keep from screaming that I bleed. I never let it go to waste, handwriting your name in large blocks of cursive on the wall like a pattern that only you would be able to decode if you ever took the time to come and see the mess you've made of me.

When I run out of blood and I run out of tears, there's nothing to do but sit and light a fag and perhaps start giving a fuck and get on with my existence. And yet as soon as I stand up again on my own two feet, I remember you and it's simple to conclude that I'm running out of lighters to light and fucks to give and things to do.

; ; ;

The purpose of it all - not everything, as 'everything' is too broad - is to pretend I am not the girl left secluded in the dark yearning for someone who's not a someone that's worth it.

But really, are there any other ways to love you?

If you discover some that I haven't encountered, I'd appreciate it if you'd let me know, but either way, please don't let me go.

I'm a train wreck without you but you're just a perfectly functioning train without me. It's the black coffee, it's getting to my head. My metaphors never made much sense, nonetheless. It's not me that's pathetic. All I'm doing is waiting, waiting it out.

; ; ;

At times vodka is hard to resist and I cancel the cancel that I'd put on it from the start.

I've come to realize that it's only miserable when I drink it alone.

It's a hobby. Not unlike you. Not unlike my apathetic tendencies and the way you are the only thing that brings me down.

If you believe I entered a random club across the road one night that's nearing dusk, you would be called a lot of things, including mistaken.

I was hoping you'd be here.

There. On the corner of first kiss and last fight. Standing still in a constantly moving crowd, waiting for someone to take you home.

I was hoping you wouldn't leave.

Step forward. Loud noise. Step backward. Bright light. Tension, of the sexual variety. Step forward. Breaking of the heart. Wait.

I was hoping you'd be kind enough to allow me to breathe.

"Scorpius," I greet nonchalantly from behind you, glass of vodka in hand; the epitome of no, nothing to be seen here, absolutely nothing. No history to be repeated or aimless goals to be discussed or people to be abandoned.

The denial is apparent when you turn around.

A deep breath. "Lucy," you set down your own drink on the table behind us that we'd blatantly fucked on last time, playing it off as purely coincidental that I found you lingering there, "how've you been?"

"Is that a joke?" I narrow my eyes.

You smirk. "I wish it was."

I ask for a dance instead of an apology. Somehow you'd sensed that I'd give up so easily.

; ; ;

The morning hours are a blur. You're faded, but not burned out. There's a distinct difference that I recall you telling me about back when we used to be better versions of ourselves.

I enjoy falling asleep with you for the millionth time in years but the first time in months. We lie in your old room instead of mine and it's perfect in all the ways except the ways it's not. It's crazy, you, but you're true, and since you're the truest thing I'll ever know I'll tell another lie to make up for all the time we've lost.

"I'm not in love with you," escapes my lips all in one breath, leaving me to momentarily choke on my own saliva afterwards. Tears would sound marginally more poetic but I find my eyes have gone mysteriously dry now that I finally have you, and you're all I have to lose so it's obvious that I'd rather give you up than be sane for once.

"Would you love me if I'd stayed?" I hear you say, like a whisper that can't be traced or the opposite wall that shows the dried remains of your bloody handwritten name, but it's rhetorical because even if we were to cease to exist, you love me all the same, for now and for always.

I tell the truth because the absence of you sounds a lot more appealing this time around, even though 'please don't leave quite yet' would have cut it as well. You would go and let me starve for nothing but your temptation either way, because it's all a part of your dirty little game that I'd rather not play for fear of losing myself all over again.

; ; ;

are you aware the shape i'm in?
my hands they shake, my head it spins
brooklyn, brooklyn, take me in
–i and love and you ; the avett brothers

; ; ;

A/N: ELLEN-DORA [fairy on acid] - you'd better lawyer up, asshole. because this fic is a fucking mess and it's all for you.