mywordfulcanvas

[mywordfulcanvas]

"How do you write such realistic dialogue-" I TALK TO MYSELF. I TALK TO MYSELF AND I PRETEND I AM THE ONE SAYING THE LINE. LIKE SANITY IS SLOWLY SLIPPING FROM BETWEEN MY FINGERS WITH EVERY MEASLY WORD THEY TYPE OUT. THAT IS HOW.

[mywordfulcanvas]

you’ve always been a magnificent artist. even the mess you created of us is a masterpiece.

[mywordfulcanvas]

i loved you—

but the tense in which i say that breaks my heart.

[mywordfulcanvas]

i don’t just remember the first time i met you,

i remember the first time i heard of you,

it was an insignificant memory

that suddenly gained so much of prominence the moment my eyes fell on you,

i didn’t even realise how important you’d end up being in my history when i forgot your name after a minute of hearing it,

i didn’t even realise how much i’d long to say it and touch your face,

with every second that i don’t, i die of slow suffering.

[mywordfulcanvas]

today i overheard a girl say "no, f*ck that. i will be lovely to everyone. maybe some people will remember they have a heart."

[mywordfulcanvas]

being a writer is so complicated. like which part of me should i write about without contradicting the others?

[mywordfulcanvas]

to be loved by a writer…

i think of you so much, i have this intense urge of writing. noting every thought of you. it started with a word— your name. then random sentences of your likes and dislikes which formed paragraphs of your quirks and the paragraphs evolved to essays of our memories. i could write poems, songs or even books about you because that’s how much my mind’s on you. i am a literary slave to you.

[mywordfulcanvas]

i love you so much, i want to express it in different forms of art.

[mywordfulcanvas]

i’ve been reading poems and journals of sylvia plath and i just feel like she’d get me.

[mywordfulcanvas]

three words haunt me.

no they aren’t “i love you”

close enough, but not “i love you”

i guess that’s why i’m haunted.