Work Text:
Feels like I'm falling through a field on a summers day—
rolling down hills that are too green, too alive,
while I pretend the same.
Flowers press their sweetness against my skin
like a lie I'm supposed to believe.
Their scent clings to me
the way illusions cling to those
already breaking.
Worms crawl over me,
slipping through every seam,
as if they've sensed the fracture—
as if the earth waits
to claim what life never wanted.
I can barely breathe,
I can barely think,
without you wandering through every hollow corner of me,
like a hand that won't release.
I wish I could forget you,
But my mind keeps drifting back—
a silent witness to my decay,
of how I will eventually collapse.
Who knew it would be this difficult,
denying something so simple?
Like a dream caught in reverie—
God, please take these thoughts from me.
You move through my mind,
consuming what's left,
a mutilation I can't reverse.
I can't fit the pieces
of who I used to be.
And I still wonder why
misery clings so tightly,
why it settles in my bones,
growing like mold
on things I've tried to keep clean.
Why it hollows me out
like a cavity widening in the dark,
leaving me a structure
barely capable of holding itself upright.
How devastating,
that one person
can unravel your entire self
without even being there.
My pulse stutters
when I imagine you turning towards me,
even though you won't—
even though you never did.
And still I reach...
pathetic in persistence,
desperate in my need
to feel anything besides
this vast, echoing absence.
And God, I ache—
not for your touch,
but for the version of myself
who didn't know this kind of emptiness.
I ache for anything
that could fill the silence,
that bleeds from your absence.
Sometimes I think
I'm longing for you.
Other times I know
I'm longing for anything
that might replace you—
anything that could stop the ache
from spreading
with every memory of
how far you are,
or how close you never were.
So I imagine a field again—
not because it's peaceful,
but because it mirrors my thoughts of you:
beautiful on the surface,
rotting underneath.
Worms weaving through me
like threads pulling me back
to something I never truly belonged to.
Soil soft around my edges,
preparing a space
for everything I've lost.
And I let myself long.
Because longing
is the last part of me
that still feels alive—
and losing even that
would mean
there's nothing left
to ache for.