Civil disobedience is not a moral obligation. Moral obligation is an act of belief and self values. So if you feel the need to break a little law to fight for what you believe in , then yes, go for it, but obeying the laws may also be part of your morals. After all the police brutality that we have heard about on the news, some people decided to stand up and protest. Even I wanted to protest downtown because I found it absolutely ridiculous that people were being killed without extreme cause by police and they only got a slap on the wrist. There are always two sides to a story. So am I obligated to rally because of inequality displayed on the media? No, not really but due to my values I would love to. "But through the other method of combating injustice, we alone suffer the consequences of our mistakes" which was said by Ghandi. It can be applied to the protests, to me it means we can scream our opinions and we can make an impact, but some will be damaged and some will be arrested in the process. Sadly, the thing we were fighting for in the first place will be served and protected. So what is justice? What is civil obedience when our enforcement can't even comply? I guess we aren't obligated to anything.

I tried really hard to be mad at you and blame you for the way we panned out. I did. But then I realized that you were ******* beautiful and honestly one of the greatest lessons. I don't need you and I never really needed you, I wanted you. I spent so much time breathing for you and trying to figure out why you couldn't love me but I know you did and that's why we weren't gonna work. You can never invest yourself into someone when you are dead. I'm dead and you are dead and we never had a chance to heal. You just need a chance to heal. Maybe love will never be your thing and maybe it's not real at all. Love has no definition and love can't just be spoken and it can't be acted and its not a real emotion let alone an essence. I enjoyed being with you, like physically around you and that was love when we were together. Outside of our bubble when we were home sitting on our phones writing about each other or just pretty much anything that was completely different. And maybe we weren't meant to actually be together but we were meant to teach each other. So yes. I understand now that you aren't healed and you have every right to want to be your own instead of being claimed as someone's. "You're mine" is a statement that can be so scary when everyone you ever let call you theirs completely ****** you over and left you thinking that everything ends badly so why begin it. So I get it and I thank you for giving me a chance to be vulnerable and let my walls down for once.

Dating a writer seems to be some kind of relationship goal. It seems so heavenly when you read a piece they wrote about you, but what happens when everything they ever wrote ends up in a box in the highest point of your closet because you couldn't dare to take it down. I promise you the words of loss will impact you more than the words of "love" that they promised were oh-so deep.

Remember when you'd hug me goodbye and the words 'I love you' escaped my mouth like my body knew you meant more than I would ever let myself know. Remember when I wrapped myself up in smoke like I wrapped myself up in everyone's goodbyes because holding on to something, even when it kills you, is easier than letting go. Remember when you pulled me in closer and every will of my being screamed to push you away and keep walking, but every tiny nerve craved your hands around my waist and the temptation to stay when it's all so wrong is too much. In all reality's I'm just too scared of the 'what ifs' that'll haunt my head once we're through because if we tried long enough we could be more than something great. Remember the way my lips moved and the way my fingers ran down your neck as if every muscle in my body needed you to know, wanted you to know, that I love you more than I could let my voice admit.

I remember it,
it was a warm Tuesday evening
and we were stumbling to the bus stop
that stood on the side
of the busy town centre street,
she was being herself,
telling me how terrible
I am
and how she hates every inch of me,
then she leaned in to kiss me;
this would happen nearly every day
but that warm Tuesday evening,
something clicked;
I took the anger I had felt for so long
and painted it on her body
with bruises
shades of purple,
yellows and blues;
she left me the next day
for a pretty boy she had met
a few days earlier;
we were never going to work;
she was crazy
and I was crazy for her;
that 'love' did not bring me joy
and hope,
it brought me suicidal thoughts
and hard liquor;
I still remember it,
the day I broke into a million
tiny little pieces;
I still find myself searching
for those pieces
and it kills me every time
I realise I can never get them back;
but I am trying
to re-build myself
with the little pieces
I managed to cling on to
in the shock of the fall

I really like pills and cigarettes and things that can **** me but haven't yet. I really like how fast it's draining my life but I really just want it to speed up. I really like when I get so mad that I can't feel because feelings can genuinely hurt. I take away that hurt with 16 to my head and filled ashtrays that scream teen angst.

one: the first day my skin met yours god realized jesus was his one and only regret.
two: if i could untangle all of the veins in my chest, if i could make them stop strangling every last molecule of love i have left in my body, you would see the last words you spoke to me fall out of their crippled noose like teardrops.
three: will she ever love you enough to give you her lungs?
four: when she screams "**** me" before she comes i hope you hear me screaming "*******" the night you walked away.
five: i write words and stare at the letters. the arrangement of letters is a puzzling thing to me, the way these same letters that can hold so much hate towards you once held the same amount of love.
six: they say time heals all. well why didn't they ever ******* tell me what happens when i have a broken watch?
seven: i made the stars fall out of the sky like they were the moons teardrops for you on the 31st night of lying in bed alone. you didn't see it because you were catching her tears in your bed instead.
eight: you will still walk the same streets that i do from time to time and i hope you see a footprint that looks like mine and realize it belongs on your throat.
nine: you are nothing but a tragic, rusty, chipped nail. you are the nails that pin me to this cross. your palms once fit into mine but now there's only holes from these stab wounds.
ten: i thought about the time you said you'd never leave and it knocked the air you inhaled into my lungs the last time you kissed me right out. it hit me so hard two ribs broke. it was a tuesday.