Maybe I was looking for anyone. Anyone but you. I wasn’t ready for you, and I couldn’t be. I wasn’t ready for liking you. I wanted someone, not you. You are more than I can handle right now. I thought that I could start getting it along the way; turns out you don’t have the time for that, and my brains are too big for my heart.

It wasn’t lonely when you were around, and I don’t hate you for leaving.
I’m just mad because you left, and I don’t want to miss you.

My hands are too little.
I could only hope to touch you.
I’m trying to grab you,
but it feels like you’re too slippery for my weak grasp.

My hands are too cold.
The warmth was still new.
It hadn’t reached them yet,
and now they’re brittle like coal.

My hands are shaking.
My house made of wheat is starting to lose its straws.
Everything is crumbling in front of me,
and I’m laughing at my disgrace.

I wish I could cut my hands off
so I could stop typing.
I hate my automatic words.
I hate my lonely world.
And I only need my arms to hold you still.

I’m sad, but I won’t post it on Twitter.
Whatever that means.