I love early mornings when it feels like the rest of the world is still fast asleep and you're the only one who's awake and everything feels like it isn't really real and you kind of forget about all your problems because for now, it's just you, the world and the sunrise.Published with Blogger-droid v2.0.9
I know that truth is a troubling thing. You can't drink your way to it. You can't snort your way to it. You can't fuck your way to it. You can't cheat your way to it. You can't love your way to it. You can only let it envelope you and try to make sense of it all.Published with Blogger-droid v2.0.9
People say "I'm going to sleep now," as if it were nothing. But it's really a bizarre activity. "For the next several hours, while the sun is gone, I'm going to become unconscious, temporarily losing command over everything I know and understand. When the sun returns, I will resume my life."Published with Blogger-droid v2.0.9
Watching the world pass by above you.
Stars shining in the midnight sky with thunder rumbling in the distance.
It's a time like this that reminds me of the time you held me in your arms and at that moment, nothing else mattered and everything was irrelevant.
I think about everything too much, and everything hurts.
there is so
much pain in remembering how and why you gave up your dreams -you’re
weak and stupid and you can’t do anything right no matter how you try;
you’re weak and dumb and you were so wrong when you thought your heart
beat viciously like a stereo on fire; you’re so weak, stupid girl- and
replaying them like a fucked-up mix-tape whenever something hits a rock
and goes wrong. Gosh, you’re so weak I can’t even emphasize it enough.
Fourteen and your dream has been stripped bone-dry; bone-weak.
and you let your constellations down; you’ve disappointed everyone who’s
told you you had so much damn heart -so much heart it could beat for
two- and so much damned potential.
Fifteen and disgusting. I disgust
myself so much you can’t even begin to comprehend how alien and sick I
feel being in my own body, sharing the mind that’s on the brink of
Sixteen and anonymous.
Tick off time, it’s lonely as fuck loving on your own. That
loneliness churns itself into clotted cream at the bottom of your
stomach so you wake up mornings wanting bad things wanting vodka to
dissolve it, fingers crossed it might go away if you see the bottom of
the bottle, veins all tied up. That’s what it does to you, you’ll look in
the mirror and you’re in knots and you didn’t realise how you got there
because loving someone who doesn’t love you fucking hurts, it’s like
when they drill into your teeth. Or when your brother accidentally pulls
your shoulder loose.
Thing is, you can let it go, you know. Feelings I mean, they’re all
silly and complicated and wind you up faster than any toy but eventually
you can teach yourself to stop. It’s all about writing lists and
drinking tea not alchohol, looking for the bright things that don’t make
you feel crap or worthless or insecure so the people who love you or
the man who sings down at the train station or that little gir…
"I love you" "Thank you" that's where
our story begins, and that's where our story ends. Not knowing may have
killed me, but it gave me hope. Knowing left me with nothing but hurt
and death. I die every time I see you, and not in a good way like
before. I die because I know you don't love me. I die because I know I
can never have you. And it kills me again and again and again.
nothing in this vast universe could
ever compare to the time spent delicately tracing you over with my
fingers in the warm silence of the night. i will always remember the
curves of your skin stretched over the fragile bones in your arms. those
arms i felt so safe in. i complained when your tracing turned to
tickles but now i realise there is nowhere i would rather be but there
in that moment with your hands on my oblique hipbones. loving me.
When you leave, do not look back. Do not turn your head or your shoulders. Point your chin. Walk.Forget the photos, and the way you laughed. Fill letters with
memories and put them in boxes. Put those boxes in the attic. Do not
look at them for years. Cry until you are red faced and shaking and your fingers will not
slow down from clenching and unclenching. Leave nail marks on your skin.
Remember how it feels to hurt, remember that you will not always feel
this way. Take walks in places you have not been, run until your feet hurt and
your soles are aching and you are lost in forests or parks or night
time trail rides (with someone who is not the person you want to
forget.) Look for magic, in books and airplanes and hidden places like secret
gardens and parks and those cats, the ones you don’t know, the ones who
rub their heads against your calves and purr. Let that feeling fill you
like warm milk. Write it down. Burn it. Write it again. You will be a bundle of nerves, accep…
Although I am many winters away from having lived a full life, I can
tell you that I have smiled many more times than I have cried and cried
many more times than anyone should. I have loved madly, recklessly,
truly and unrequitedly and I’ve lost it, too. I’ve felt the explosion
of laughter, the red flushing of shame and insecurity, the eruption of
excitement’s goosebumps and the gnawing jaws of regret, misery and
heartache. I have read the books my father read and have arrived to
this conclusion: Life is defined by our experiences. What I am is a
story that may not interest you, but may very well indeed be someone’s
The rule of seven implies that it will take that many times to anchor
a certain detail into memory. It is also the number of times a heart
must break before your idea of love begins to limp along the rutted path
that takes you back home. Everything about this letter is mnemonic; my
feeble hands attempting to sew all of the things I failed to imbue upon
I love you.
In seven shades, in seven ways, in seven phases it takes the moon to
summon you on its eighth and deliver you back to the morning sun.
I love you.
The way in which a season spreads along your window and brings you
dervish petals, butterflies and snow. Ever changing, ever same, ever
I love you.
More than the last one ever did and more than the next will ever
know. The entire conglomeration of those who have loved you, combined,
to make but an idea of just how much so.
I love you.
In muted expressions that can only play themselves out in the notes
of my favourite songs and in the words of m…
I think that when I have kids, and they are upset, I won't tell them that people are starving in China or anything like that because it wouldn't change the fact that they were upset. And even if someone else has it much worse, that doesn't really change the fact that you have what you have.
Little things can easily go unnoticed like the way my finger traces
your ring finger in a far away thought or how I watch you sleep in the
dim TV screen light and smile to see your toothbrush next to mine.
Vegetabrella by Yurie Mano
This is pretty rad-ish, but lettuce not get too excited, the umbrella
will allow your head to romaine dry but it’s not very tasty. I know the
puns are corny but I really don’t carrot all.
What possessed me? What possesses anyone to tear a flower off its bed
just to inhabit its scent? Or pass verdict on your lover’s claim by
snipping off its petals? Do not judge me. I was fifteenwith lust and
awkward limbs and he was a gamma ray bursting inside my chest. He spoke
my name like a distant star and collected my lips the way one would
gelato, lick after lick after lick and my knees gave way. I felt parts
of me unfold and curl around the very detail of him as he unbuttoned my
inhibitions one by one and traced the line of my décolletage
with expert fingers. I felt beautiful if nothing less and it was enough
for me to take refuge between his palms and let him slip into my atoms.
It was love. It was Spring. It was the tide that finally swept me
ashore. My God, isn’t that reason enough?
The average person will have taken 840 breaths by the hour. I, 1000.
Ask me how I know this and I’ll tell you that I am poor, but I suppose
you’ll never understand. You couldn’t possibly when the only reason
your chest explodes is because you’ve spent your mornings running to or
from something, or your nights coughing up a bad cold.
“I want you to close your eyes and take a deep breath.”
I pinched your nose and pressed my palm against your mouth. I
haven’t been myself these last two weeks and you’ve had to resort to an
empty couch and TV dinners while I slept in the other room and two
oceans away from you. You asked me whether or not I still wanted you
and so I took you to the very edge of your ability; suffocated you until
you twitched with red desperation and pushed me off of you. You
gasped. I smiled.
“What I want is to be that necessary.”
There are things in life we want and things we need. When you are
poor, I think it’s easier to tell the difference bet…
Do you ever look at really old people and wonder what they looked like
when they were teenagers? And then you cry a little because you realize
that one day that’s going to be you, and you are one day going to be
considered an “old person.” All of our lives we have only been seen as
“young.” One day we are going to look back on these years and wish we
could re-live them again. I don’t cherish my young life enough.
"Suicide causes more deaths than homicide every year."
I’m numbing my mind over the contours of that sentence, rubbing it against its skeleton just to understand that we have become experts at taking our own lives, that we walk around with time bombs in our hearts and our fingers constantly on the trigger of our pulse.
I read that four out of five people who commit suicide have attempted to kill themselves at least once previously, and I wonder what words are worth if mine can’t find you at the edge and move you enough to turn you around, I wonder, what took you there the second, third, the fourth time And why did nobody save you yet?
This is for everyone who has survived. This is for everyone who didn’t. This is for everyone who lost a love to this battle of life.
If you are still here, you can make it anywhere. Untie the nooses, let go the blades, step away from the edge.
Make it to your first snowfall, or your last mistake. Make…
if you are looking for a sign, this is it.
put down the razor
and go to bed.
if there is a full moon tonight, go watch it.
if there is poetry to be written, go write it.
if there is someone whose hand is empty, go hold it.
you are not unfixable.
you may be broken but you can be put back together.
there is someone out there who would love to pick up your pieces
and one by one
tenderly put them back into place.
so put the pills down now. put the razor down.
go to bed, sleep.
this is your chance.
His fingers spoke with a stutter in a language I have yet to understand. I am not fluent in beautiful but he is every word of poetry I’ve known.
See, he tore through my rib cage, there are dents in my chest the shape of his touch, and my jail-bars have been bent apart. People say jellyfish don’t have hearts- He is the ocean collecting my pulse.
I am empty- but I am full, Do you know what I mean?
Do you know what I mean when I say That each space between my fingers could write him a poem. That every swaying tree and windshield wiper; every falling skyscraper reminds me of his hand waving goodbye, while he walked out of my heartbeat.
Do you know what I mean when I say I am not missing him, but I am missing? I still remember the way his smile made love to his eyes, I remember the bow of his palm on my lonely violin lips- I do not play anymore. I am writing out of a window, waiting for the right light, there are doors that are closed even when they’re open- And I left my ink in his su…
We were postcards and handwritten letters-
Things that people forgot to love when the rains came.
We were typewriters and feathered quills.
Grand pianos, just aching to be touched once more.
We were old record players still believing in music
Lonely violins searching for broken bows.
We were kisses with our eyes closed
And making love like we were making something more
We were times that forgot how to change,
The broken clock that’s still right twice a day.
We were sepia toned, Polaroid memories
That didn’t know how to turn with this world
As it turned away.
You once told me that the sky had no colour. That it simply borrowed the
hues of our souls, and wore it on it’s skin for the day. You said the
world is draped in a lot of sorrow. At seven years old I pretended to
know what that meant. That I understood why hearts break without making a
sound, and people leave without saying goodbye, and my body is falling
apart but somehow it’s still together. Sixteen years young, and tonight,
I’m staring at a blue blue sky that’s all my fault.
Dear whomever this may concern (you), I write to you like I would write to me, and for this I apologize or at least pretend to. I
traversed an expedition through old photos the last time it rained
under the sun and saw this smiling child with innocence painting stars
in her eyes (the colors of gold, of silver, of umber). She haunts me.
A spectre that follows me in tendrils of wind-disguised smoke and
whispers of clean, little-girl scent in my wake. I remember her and I
don’t. Sometimes I wonder how much of what’s left of her is real and
what’s fantasy. If the number of times your name is spoken equates to
how material you remain, she’s as intangible as the weight of my ‘I love
you more’s to the moon. (P.S. And I can still hear percussion of the someone’s I used to be echoing around my bones. They grow fainter by the year.)
I played a silly game against a boy with a crooked nose planted on
his face and brown roots in his hair. The rules were simple, they go
like this: whoever…
Fuck I really can’t understand why you’d call yourself broken, you
didn’t have to watch yourself burn out. Fuck you, handsome. Fuck. You. I
hate you, and I should after everything you put me through, you really
can’t even look me in the eye. Do you even know?
“In some ways, I love everything. It’s less of a
distinct thing. Less particular. I like things that I like but I love
everything. There’s more choice in like. Because even the worst things
have things to love in them.”
Alice had bones made from spun sugar
and fragile wings growing from her back.
she kissed like electricity when it runs through a wire,
with a mouth like a song bird
and a mind of cool blue fire.
Alice was smart as could be and never told a joke
that didn’t get a laugh;
the women all crossed themselves when she walked past.
the boy who loved her wrote her name on his walls
until it was covered with Alice, Alice, Alice,
tattooed her first words to him on the inside of his arm.
but what no one knew was that pretty, sweet, wonderful Alice
had a mind filled with shadows
which crept into her bed at night and kissed wounds
into her porcelain skin.
the trees breathed her name on every inhalation,
and the very next day Alice was gone-
floating in the bathtub with her hair spread out
a bottle of pills on the bathroom floor,
and poor darling Alice never left a note.
there once was a girl who was like the moon: her dark side was always hidden from those around her. on the outside she glowed, luminous, as brilliant as stardust, but on the inside was filled with craters and holes that could never be sewn back up. this girl often felt like an empty house in which all possible means of escape are closed: doors, windows, attics. at night she tried desperately to stop her tears from falling and kept as many of them in a jar as she could catch. this jar soon grew full of tears, and those tears rose further and further to the top until the lid cracked and the jar overflowed. they were an ocean of tears and she was struggling to keep herself from drowning. it was only when she was asleep that this girl felt magical and was able to see herself in a way that she never could during the day. in her dreams she could finally unlock her heart from its cage and set it free. like a bird it rested upon her shoulder and finally it was this heart, not her head, that told her…
he left a note on her windshield that said, hello, i am the one who wrecked your car, but you look awfully pretty so would you please call me and we can get all the details of this worked out?
thirty years later they still joke about how the thing
that got them together
was a stuck accelerator and quite a few dents.
This is an invitation:
Crawl into my bed and tell me secrets.
Do not touch me.
Do not take off your clothes: I won’t know how to love without thinking.
I will hurt you
I wrote you a poem to tell you that I loved you
and all I got was this dumb scar
the shape of your heart on my thighs.
I find myself thinking about fingers, don’t you think they look strange,
J? Like if you look at your hands for too long they’re somewhat alien.
And the best way to make my waist look smaller, so belts really, loads
of different coloured belts that are coiled up in my wardrobe like
snakes. That’s why I love autumn, because I can wear jeans and fluffy
shoes and a massive sweater and no-one will say ‘who’s that strange
one?’ I like the way when I’m in my car and the leaves look like mini
fires falling from the sky or the way they sound beneath my feet or
those tiny frogs, goddamn those tiny frogs. I like the boys in trench
coats and their messenger bags and their messy wind swept hair. And man
‘my lover’s words were shooting stars which fell to the Earth as kisses
on these lips’, ‘I don’t like to read, one does not love breathing,’
‘Imagine a future moment in your life where all your dreams come true,
you know it’s the greatest moment of your life and you get to experience
On the way home tonight I stopped and thought about all the words that
people leave unsaid, hanging on the tips of their tongues for the ‘right
moment’ even though there is never really ever a moment that is right.
And it occurred to me then that it is possible to know a person but
never really know them, it is possible to sit right next to
them and realize that they are simply the biggest enigma you have ever
come across and no matter how much you try, you will never get past that
first wall between you. And you look across the table at them, a
question in your eyes, but the words die on your lips before they make
it to oxygen, smothered back to oblivion, because you have stopped
taking those risks a long time ago when you realized that you can’t even
trust yourself anymore.
Then you forget about it all because you’d
rather not remember, or at least until it creeps up on you one night
when you miss them terribly even though there was never really anything
for you to miss…
It is on the verge of raining and it reminds me of you even though we
never braved a rainstorm, not together. There is thunder there, thunder
rumbling and thunder striking in our hearts; I’m figuring this is so
because I say on the verge, and I was always on the verge, of never
falling, of waiting for my thoughts to finally glaciate and
form mellifluous crystals of delicate frost on the tip of my parched
tongue, always craving for a taste of you, and how would you have tasted
if you were older; if we were older, and if I was dauntless; enough to
pull you out to the porch and feel you with me underneath the greying
I’m sorry I don’t know where to begin this poem, because people
always argue where a train line begins. I’m sorry I’m not a size zero.
I’m sorry I always want to get out of Asia, but you say you don’t trust
the Europeans, and you never believed in the Loch Ness anyways. I’m
sorry I’m always flirting with the worst; I told you my life was a
B-grade drama series with a bad sense of humour and a graveyard slot.
I’m sorry I wasn’t enough to make you want to stay. I’m sorry the fire
went out. I’m sorry the only thing I could sew is the battered heart on
my sleeve, the one I had to rip out because the aorta had nowhere to go.
I’m sorry train stations make me think of you. I’m sorry that I scared
myself away. I’m sorry I surpassed two thousand calories today. I’m
sorry if my scripts are too difficult to follow.
I’m sorry I would have gotten down on my knees if that was what it took to make you love me. I’m sorry I got greedy and instead of just wanting you to fuck me, I wanted yo…
I hate how I feel nowadays. I hate how I always have watery eyes, with tears just waiting for the right moment to fall. I hate how I have such a heavy heart, beating sorely and tiredly through each waking day. I hate how many memories and thoughts come at the darkest hour of the night, reminding or putting sentences and phrases in my head I'd rather not think about. I hate how my throat is always sore as if from crying, even when I haven't cried, yet. I hate how people constantly put me down, not knowing how much it stays in my head - for hours or days or months, sometimes.
I hate how I can't talk to anybody about this because no one entirely understands.
That holding your breath gets easier the quieter you become. Morning
clouds are homeless. That his handwriting looks like a half-packed
suitcase. That reading before dawn is the only way to discover what
matters. The hands of a pianist are like birds, flying across dark and
light skies. That she had loved his nocturne, once.
This is what she does not know.
That growing does not stop. That flowers know colours she will never
see. That the motion of folding is the softest of all. That someone will
come one morning and gather up all the parts of her in one breath. That
star jasmine will inhabit space in the same way- exploring all the
different kinds of air (windswept, tear-stained, cloud-tinted), before
coming to a still and collapsing, with one breath, into a full,
flowering face. That for all its life, it will wear the same expression.
That it will cry until the end.
This is what she knows:
That however many times she
will count on her fingers, she…
"As far as possible, each soul had to be content alone before plunging into love, because one never knew when the other would move out of that love. It was the greatest paradox: Souls need each other, but they also need to not need each other."
but the boys who are looking for the sad girls always find me. i’m not a
girl anymore and i’m not sad anymore, if you want me to be a tragic
backdrop so that you can appear to be illuminated, so that people can
say ‘wow, isn’t he so terribly brave to love a girl who is so obviously sad?’
if you think i’ll be the dark sky so you can be the star, well the sky
is vast and have you seen the sky in the morning? have you seen how it
looks against the sun? i’ll swallow you whole.
I’ve been running away
again—from you, from the truth, from the gravity of my sins, from the
pain of reality. It’s what I do all the time. I stall, I keep distance,
disappear for days, weeks even, and then reappear as if nothing ever
happened. I push people away all the time, and they let me do whatever
the hell I want, even if I hurt myself in the process. Maybe that’s what
I’m looking for: someone who won’t let me do what I want. Someone
who’ll say, hell no when I say go away. Someone who’ll say, what the
bloody hell is your problem? Don’t you know we’re worried when I say I’m
fine; I always am. Sometimes, I get sick of my feelings too that I want
to actually stop feeling them, but I feel them anyway as if I never
warned myself at all.
Over the many months that passed, I realized I’ve
put on a lot of layers and masks, I barely recognize myself anymore.
Maybe everything that I’ve been writing all this time weren’t really
I like guys who know how to dress well and are
confident in their style. Fashion does not matter much to me but if I
have to chose, I’d pick the “gentlemen” look over hypebeasts any day.
Don’t get me wrong, if you like wearing “illest” logos and stuff like
that then go for it! It’s a nice type of style. I just prefer guys who
can pull of cardigans, button up shirts, vests, glasses, beanies,
bow-ties, and anything that would make them look gentlemanly and proper.
I don’t know why I like it, I just do.
we apologize to abolish our own guilt and that may be selfish but it shows the person we are apologizing to that we are human and sometimes that reminder in the most comforting thing a person will hear.
sometimes i forget that you are alive
and living and going places and talking to people and eating dinner and
thinking and feeling and crying and putting socks on and tossing and
turning at night and washing your face and seeing your face in the
mirror and when i remember that you are out there living a whole entire
life it makes me both sad and happy with a strange sense of homecoming
and i think that maybe i’m forgetting what you look like
- The Pied Piper
In the tale of the Pied Piper, we have a village overrun with rats. A
man arrives dressed in clothes of pied (a patchwork of colors) and
offers to rid the town of the vermin. The villagers agree to pay a vast
sum of money if the piper can do it – and he does. He plays music on his
pipe which draws all the rats out of the town. When he returns for
payment – the villagers won’t cough up so the Pied Piper decides to rid
the town of children too! In most modern variants, the piper draws the
children to a cave out of the town and when the townsfolk finally agree
to pay up, he sends them back. In the darker original, the piper leads
the children to a river where they all drown (except a lame boy who
couldn’t keep up). Some modern scholars say that there are connotations
of pedophilia in this fairy tale.
- The Little Red Riding Hood
The version of this tale that most of us are familiar with ends with
Riding Hood being saved by the woodsman who kills the wicked w…