She wanted to die.
He wanted to live.
•••
A hand grabbed onto my wrist, yanking me back just as the train rushed past, before I'd even had time to comprehend whether or not I'd carry out the action. I stumbled back into the person's chest, my hear...
Oops! This image does not follow our content guidelines. To continue publishing, please remove it or upload a different image.
Being trapped inside my mind was something I wouldn't wish upon my worst enemy. In fact, my mind probably was my worst enemy.
It had the ability to make me feel insignificant one second and elated the next, constantly toying with my insecurities for its own entertainment. Poetry was like my antidote to the poison within my mind, helping to temporarily sedate the toxic thoughts and regain fleeting control that rarely lasted.
I had never shown anyone my poems, partly because of my immense fear of their judgement, but because I wouldn't want anyone to even get a glimpse of what it was like to be me. Yet here I was, staring into Romeo's potent eyes as he held the book filled with all of my deepest darkest emotions.
He scanned my masked gaze for any sign of hesitation as he tilted his head ever so slightly, his eyes trailing down to the my journal where a poem lay awaiting to be read-
"Wait!"
His gaze shot back up to mine, his eyebrows raised questioningly. "Maybe... just don't read that one," I drawled out nervously, fidgeting with my fingers as I watched him turn the page with a cautious expression, his eyes never leaving mine.
My eyes darted down to the new page, my hand subconsciously leaning over to turn it after reading the first line. "Or that one too." I skim read a few more lines on the newly turned page, wincing at how morbid it sounded. "Definitely not this one-"
"Am I meant to read any at all?" He cut me off, slightly amused as I sighed at my own futile apprehension. "How about... you pick one for me to read? One you actually want me to."
Nodding hesitantly, I watched as he handed me my closed journal, waiting patiently while I opened a couple of random pages and skim read a few poems before letting my eyes linger on one titled: Tired.
Maybe I'm not really tired In the physical sense Maybe I'm just tired of life Spending every second Trying not to pick up a knife Maybe I'm not really tired In the physical sense Maybe I'm just tired of the tears Battling inner demons And running from my fears Maybe I'm not really tired In the physical sense Maybe I'm just tired of breathing Searching for a purpose That could stop me from leaving Maybe I'm not really tired In the physical sense Maybe I'm just tired of being me Covering my sadness With the fake smiles you see Maybe I'm not really tired In the physical sense Maybe I'm just tired mentally Of being trapped in my mind And being what they expect of me
I stared at the words a second longer, satisfied that it was one of the less dire ones before I placed the book between us, angling it towards him so he could read it.
I kept my gaze focused solely on the page, too anxious of what I might see if I met his piercing gaze that returned back to me once he had finished reading. "When did you write this?" he questioned lowly, the slightest trace of sympathy in his tone.
