chenmins:

oh, i’ve tried to find a cure for the way i feel sometimes, but it’s come to the point where i think it doesn’t exist at all. i’ve taken the hands of a thousand boys, crawled into their laps and felt them tremble beneath me from the weight of the smile that spreads across my face. i tell them stories, ask them questions, let them into my head in the hopes that they might probe around a bit. oh, a pretty boy like you, couldn’t you fix me? couldn’t you?

it’s me, myself. i’m the parasite in my own veins. i hang from beds upside down, lie in the grass by the alleyways, pray someone will take me home and gut me to make a home inside. oh, how i could love if you gave me the chance. if you carved me out, made me hollow, maybe i could care just that little bit more. maybe i could save myself. 

i’m so sorry. i never meant for it to be like this. not an ending, but that fucking middle scene that drags on forever where the main character breaks down and lets their misery soak into every single body watching with horror behind the screen. i’m so sorry that you had to find me on the kitchen floor, my wrists pressed to my eyes for fear i’d burst if i took them away. i tried to stop the way the salt burned behind my eyelids before you came home. i didn’t want to be pitied. 

(i only wanted a cure. i only wanted the parasite gone.)

i know you were scared, i know that you were terrified, that you searched my wrists and my ribs and my bones for blood or something to tell the story. i’m sorry that there was nothing. i’m sorry i couldn’t say anything that could have made it better. i’m sorry for laughing so weakly from my spot on the floor and telling you that sometimes the linoleum is so stiff that it wakes you back up for a while. 

i’ve taken the hands of a thousand boys, a thousand girls, a thousand children trembling and longing for their mothers. i’ve walked with them, walked alone. i remember the streets well enough to follow them with my eyes closed. i take the paths i’ve woven before with my shoes as the thread, thumping on soil and pavement. it’s never quite the same. 

i find myself crawling into the laps of boys who don’t know what to do with their hands, who tremble because i smile and who are so afraid of someone who is a parasite that they don’t stop to think that maybe i’m afraid, too. 

(i’m so afraid, sweetheart. i’m sorry for never saying so.)

maybe it’s better like this. maybe it’s better to let the parasite of myself eat away slowly. you hold me like i am precious and all i can feel is sorry for leading you to think i was anything worthwhile at all. 

i lie on my back on the kitchen floor. i spread myself across the linoleum and soak up the fluorescent lights that buzz over the faucet. i sway and sink in my own little sea of thought, let the floor swallow me whole and take me home. i didn’t want you to find me like this, but i suppose you didn’t mind if you still held me after. i promise i’ll be better next time. 

(maybe you are my cure.)

thank you for not minding the way i look at you with my lips trembling and my hands between my thighs. thank you for letting me rest my head against your pillow instead of mine and thank you for telling me that sometimes you think that you’re a parasite too, even if i thought it was ridiculous. nothing has ever meant more to me. 

i promise i’ll be better next time, for you. 

HOW DO PEOPLE NOT TAG THINGS I JUST DON’T UNDERSTAND WHAT IF YOU WANT TO GO THROUGH YOUR OTP TAG AND CRY IN THE MIDDLE OF THE NIGHT BUT YOU CAN’T BECAUSE YOUR BLOG IS UNORGANIZED SO YOU HAVE TO GO THROUGH EVERY PAGE TO GET THE FEELINGS THIS IS A SERIOUS POST THIS STRESSES ME OUT