Showing posts from October, 2012
Everyone’s always lonely all the time. It kind of ends up like this elastic ball of longing in your stomach for some intangible thing that you can’t always understand when actually it’s probably just everyone’s deepest need to be held onto like you’re someone’s life raft. And I think that’s probably the worst kind. When you stay up half the night holding onto the remnants of your body thinking of all the ways you might like to curve yourself around the hips of someone else and it’s not even sex, it’s not even relationships, they could be a male or female or whoever and it’s all about skin.

Sometimes I just want to be held for a very, very long time. And I want to walk to the kitchen being held, and make coffee and do all of that all at the same time. Because loneliness tends to shake you, and grip you by the neck and you’ll have pits in your stomach and dreams, and holes, and all the punctures you get left behind from feeling too much and having nowhere to put. So yes, p…
“Do you remember who you were before the world screwed you over?” 

“I remember having my rose tinted glasses planted firmly at the bridge of my nose.”

“You used to stand at bus stops, biting your nails for a miracle you weren’t sure was coming. You were so alive then, you were like running electricity through water.” 

“Do you think I’m dead now?”

“I think you need to remember to stop clinging to all the ways you were hurt, or how people didn’t live up to your expectations. All those times you fell down and scraped your knee and the cut wouldn’t stop bleeding. You’re disappointed everytime you meet someone who doesn’t fall straight in love with you."
This heart is rusty.
It creaks, it clanks,
it crashes and rattles
and bangs and it breaks
down without you.

I don’t know
what is happening
to the brain in my head.
It’s like it’s full of straw and
I can’t think I can’t think
I can’t think I can’t think
of anything but you
and every time I do
I catch on fire.

You rumble up
like a roar from my chest.
I’m frightened of these sounds
coming out of my mouth
but I like the way they sound
in my teeth.

Pay no attention to the man
behind this curtain of words.
There’s no place like you.
There’s no place like you,
and I just want to go home.”
you’re in a car with a beautiful girl and she is reading other people’s words like she will die trying, voice a honeysuckle flower with the sweet leeched out to bleed against your treacherous gums, sorrow beating against the windshield like a trapped bird and she won’t tell you she loves you because she doesn’t.

you’re in a car with a beautiful girl and it is the first time and it is the last time, and you will be in a dozen cars with a dozen beautiful girls before the next birthday you can imagine but none of them will look like her, unshed tears catching the orange glow of the passing streetlights and fingers flexing against the dogeared pages of a book of words she used to gasp into the air between you while your hands flexed and bent inside her, and she won’t tell you she loves you because she never has
you’re in a car with a beautiful girl and you are throwing spent cliches at the wall like cooked spaghetti to see what will stick while her fingers trace lines of yo…

This year...

has had one of the roughest start ever.
I really thought this would be a shitty year.
But as usual, life always manages to prove to you how wrong you are.

The people I've been real close to this year are amazing. And they're what you can call real friends.
The people I never thought I'd ever talk to again... Let's just say we're on good terms again.
The people I've met this year have somehow managed to be one of my lifelines.
The people I've lost are the ones I no longer need in my life.

It's been a really long way from where I started and I'm honestly proud of myself.

Here’s what our parents never taught us:

You will stay up on your rooftop until sunlight peels away the husk of the moon,
chainsmoking cigarettes and reading Baudelaire, and
you will learn that you only ever want to fall in love with someone
who will stay up to watch the sun rise with you.

You will fall in love with train rides, and sooner or later you will
realize that nowhere seems like home anymore.

A woman will kiss you and you’ll think her lips are two petals
rubbing against your mouth.
You will not tell anyone that you liked it.
It’s okay.

It is beautiful to love humans in a world where love is a metaphor for lust.
You can leave if you want, with only your skin as a carry-on.

All you need is a twenty in your pocket and a bus ticket.
All you need is someone on the other end of the map, thinking about the supple
curves of your body, to guide you to a home that stretches out for miles
and miles on end.

You will lie to everyone you love.
They will love you anyways.

One day you’ll wake up and realize …

"I want to be untouchable and beautiful and completely dead inside."

When I think about things too hard I want to break things and then I want to break you. It’s so exhausting feeling so much and so little at the time.

I have been waiting all my life to be with you. My heart slams against my ribs when I think of the slaughtered nights I spent all over the world waiting to feel your touch.

12:45 AM: You wrap two strands of my hair around your middle finger to cut the circulation. My scalp protests and so do your veins. This is how you make me feel, you say.

12:46 AM: I tell you that your metaphors are morbid.

2:00 AM: I wake up to find you sprawled naked in the bathtub, sleeping with your mouth open. I kick you awake.

2:01 AM: Get away from me, you mumble, being near you is like drowning.

2:05 AM: The press of you where our mattress dips, is cold.

2:10 AM: I find myself discussing politics with the Moon, who gazes across at me sympathetically and purses her lips when I evade the issues at hand. She turns her back on me very soon, busy and irritated, and I find myself alone.

4:00 AM: I wake up to find you clinging to the curve of my hip, where my skin rises up to meet you as though it knows no other response. It is burning like hades. Your fingers are clutching spasmodically at the pulse beating at the base of my neck.

4:45 AM: I’m sorry everything is so crap, you …
i was going to begin by calling her a beauty queen, but she is so much more than that. i was going to entitle this ‘the story of’, but i didn’t want to admit this was all she might be one day.
twice. stomach pumping because things never end the way she wished they would; porcelain limbs sporting sprouting baluster scars like they belonged; she had swallowed a hurricane (or should i say, a hurricane had swallowed her) and in the sanitized hallways i can only imagine the medics, going, ‘oh, samantha’.
oh, how she had screamed. oh, of course people heard - all the wrong people. (her solace dies with the strumming of strings - ) if i didn’t know any better, i could’ve sworn that it was watercolour leaking from the rivulets of her veins. (but i do.)
she was in love once, you know. i’d like to think she felt whole once, long ago. with one of those pretty-eyed boys with sun-kissed smiled and an insatiable hunger for a beauty he would never see in her. if his …
How many times have I had a boy reach out his hand to grasp mine, to force his gaze into my glassy eyes, telling me that this time would be like none before him and sometimes, the daring ones would say “ever”. And often times, depending on my mood, I would laugh in response, say something witty or mundane, to be nice or sarcastic— the options didn’t vary for me, it didn’t matter which I chose, the truth lied in the fact that I wouldn’t choose him, or even her; I couldn’t feel a thing.

And it isn’t so much that I’ve built ridiculously high or thick walls, nor that I categorized and rushed individuals into spaces that deemed them not likely or not enough. It isn’t so much that I’m “shattered” because I’ve grown to be stronger than to admit defeat, or any type of weakness.. then again, maybe I’ve grown too strong. And maybe, ultimately, being too strong is a weakness in itself.
But how many times have I been here, have a boy tell me he’s more than just a butterfly donor. I’…
Everything you said out loud
was everything I thought, in
and I wanted to tell you
that our minds thought the same
but I figured
you already knew

You. Me. The Sunrise.

We wake up in the morning face-to-face. Well, I wake up. You’re asleep. Your eyes are closed. For a minute I just look at you. I start at your hairline. Your sleep-rumpled mane. My gaze sweeps down to your forehead, your temples, your ears. Your adorable ears. I reach one hand up and delicately run one finger over your ear.

I look down to your nose. Your cute little nose. The curve above your lip, down to your top lip. The soft parting of them where your breath comes out. Your lower lip. Your chin. Your jawline. I love all of it. I want to soak all of you up with my eyes. I want to remember everything. I want to take a picture with my mind.

Just let me have this. Let me have you.

Outside, the sounds of the city streets echo. I can hear cars, the murmurs of people talking, our neighbors turning on their shower. I can hear the world beginning to turn. It’s early. The sun is soft yellow and filtered by gray. I can hear a light breeze, a distant alarm clock, a ruffle as you sh…

I would rather be alone, Than pretend I feel alright.

Acosmist - one who believes that nothing exists
Paralian - a person who lives near the sea
Aureate - pertaining to the fancy or flowery words used by poets
Dwale - to wander about deliriously
Sabaism - the worship of stars
Dysphoria - an unwell feeling
Aubade - a love song which is sung at dawn
Eumoirous - happiness due to being honest and wholesome
Mimp - to speak in a prissy manner, usually with pursed lips

"Well, why do you do it, then?"

I meant it seriously. I really wondered why people were always doing what they didn't like doing. It seemed like life was a sort of narrowing tunnel.

Right when you were born, the tunnel was huge. you could be anything.
Then, like, the absolute second after you were born, the tunnel narrowed down to about half that size.

You were a boy, and already it was certain you wouldn't be a mother and it was likely you wouldn't become a manicurist or a kindergarten teacher.

Then you started to grow up and everything you did closed the tunnel in some more.
You broke your arm climbing a tree and you ruled out being a baseball pitcher.
you failed every math test you ever took and you cancelled any hope of being a scientist.
Like that.

on and on through the years until you were stuck.
you'd become a baker or a librarian or a bartender. Or an accountant. And there you were.

I figured that on the day you died, the tunnel would be so narrow, you'd have squeezed yourself in with so m…

10 lies people will tell you after a break up.

1. “It has nothing to do with you.”
It’s an unfortunate reality that many people who are dumped, despite being utterly broken up over the whole ordeal, were unwittingly the cause of things not working out. Some people just aren’t compatible, and you may happen to be the opposite of things that the person you love is looking for in life. Where they want someone who is more quiet and methodical and reserved, you may be loud and spontaneous and outgoing. And that doesn’t mean that there’s anything wrong with you — it only means that you’ll be much better suited to a different relationship. But acting as though, in every case, the breakup happened despite the fact that the two of you were absolutely perfect for each other in every way is just absurd.

2. “You’re better off without them.”
There is no need to qualify people as being “better” or “worse” in the context of a relationship every time there is a breakup. Sure, there are going to come obvious times when someone has esc…

We pick and choose the things that affect us, and some are hard to let go of but eventually it gets easier. It always does.

when you left there were
so many things i wanted to say.
i wrote them down on scraps of paper that floated
around the apartment, our apartment, my apartment
for years, fluttering out of the dresser, shifting around
in the bottom of the freezer. i’d find them in the laundry,
tucked into my shirtsleeves, rolled up notes in windowsill cracks

saying i love you, rewriting every item from
the last grocery list you left on the kitchen counter
complete with coffee stain in the corner,
numbers guessing how many kisses
i would have had to give you to kiss it all better,
the grown-up equivalent of guessing the number
of shiny jelly beans in a giant jar -

i was never the child
who managed to get it just right,
to summon the right number
from some corner of his little heart,
to carry home the prize.

there were so many words that
no longer had your ear to pour into
so i spelled them out in fridge magnets,
slipped them into e-mails, the forevers,
the i’m sorrys, because you said don’t
blame yourself as if that were …
You can never read your own book with the innocent anticipation that comes with that first delicious page of a new book, because you wrote the thing. You’ve been backstage. You’ve seen how the rabbits were smuggled into the hat. Therefore ask a reading friend or two to look at it before you give it to anyone in the publishing business. This friend should not be someone with whom you have a romantic relationship, unless you want to break up.
even the mourn
                                                -ing flowers
                                                shudder at the
                                                1 PM sunset
                                                winds too cold
                                                for the strawberry
                                                right now we are
                                                we are breathing
                                                cinnamon candle
                                                lights from the
                                                fume hoods of
                                                incinerated hearts,
                                                we are decomposing
                                                orchestra, a
                                                graveyard inside
I have written this over and over again hoping that it might reach you. The sun never apologises for its heat; just like how I will never apologise for keeping you in my heart.
I would’ve made a map of your words and braid them through my hair (as if I would have them, always my saving grace, only for them to flake away in the autumn, like leaves, but far heavier); I would’ve kissed you to taste the lights of the port city, and traced the lines of the collarbone to feel the woods.
You meant more to me then you’d ever know. I don’t know if you not and never knowing that is okay with me, but I am not sorry. It’s just the diary eyes.
I've been thinking about the end of the year, how October slides into November slide into December. October is the bruised-up month with cold hands and autumn leaves, stung faces; November is the beginning of snow and unsaid apologies, sorrows crawling across the page like spiders. Only December reamins: the kind of month you carry around in your heart forever, when your skin tears too easily and you wonder if everything's been worth it after all.
I’ve never been whole; always lived cracked open, pieces missing. I used to wish so terribly that I could be complete, but now I’m not so sure. I’m not so sure I want to be satisfied and healed, because there’s something so beautiful about wounds still open, scars barely formed.

Something so courageous about how the heart just keeps thumping tucked away behind your battered ribs, how the eyes open to each new day, no matter how little of you is left, no matter how little you know of yourself.

You can run your thoughts over your mind like a soldier checking for injuries and stumble onto vast question marks, places undeveloped or unknown.
And that can be scary.

Or just incredible, how we manage to live amongst the clutter of our hearts and the mess of our minds, always looking for ourselves like our souls are secrets growing dusty in hidden corners, waiting to be found.

I think I’m in love with missing you more than I’m in love with you.

"most oriole get on my nerves, but not in my veins. " - Schneidermann

look, I know this is hard for you to understand but it really isn't easy on me either. which is why I am confused as to why you're taking it so personally. but I simply do not love you like I used to. no, there isn't someone else. no, my sexual preference hasn't changed. we are just too different these day, i wished I still loved you, I really do. but I don't, I can't, I won't. not anymore.
"We're fucked, you know," I tell her as we sit with our legs dangle down into nothings, shoelaces twisting in the breeze like charmed snakes. "Why's that?" She says idly as I hold out half a smoldering cigarette to her. "Just look at this place," I say, as if I have to explain and I gesture at the world around us and I let the smoke drift along my throat and past my lips as I speak. "Just look at it." And the world around us is a warm breath carrying cold smoke. "I see," she says,exhaled and kisses me.

"if you love a flower, don't pick it up."

we exist at equilibrium. moving the same way with time, flowing like we are supposed to - separate because we have to, separate because that is all we have ever known. we are parallel lines never touching, never crossing, watching each other, but will never become closer or farther apart than we have already come to be. This is our equilibrium; this is how it'll always be.
the tragedy of this world is that no one is-happy, whether stuck in a time of pain or of joy. the tragedy of this world is that everyone is alone. for a life in the past cannot be shared with the present. each person who gets stuck in time gets stuck alone.
in my sixteen years, I've tried unribboning the thoughts of those who wanted to take their lives by their own hands more than use touched the lips of another.

I thought I felt infinite, once, but what happens when you learn of the truth? The truth does not set you free, it makes me want to rip the wings off angels with my bare teeth.

The sea will take me back, ripples upon ripples of my life like moonlight running across the waters.

can you see the stars from where you are, darling?

I loved you more than I'd ever dare tell, my love. Here I am, talking about you like I had a right to you.

But this is my story, I am the one with glass shattering under stretched skin, etching forgotten memories into the sides of my ribs that I wanted to have bruises that in time I fell out of death's grasps (just this once, he told me) just because I knew what stories I could tell from that, and that burning pain reminded me I am alive.

There's more to keeping warm than thinking the…

He blinks and says that there's two kinds of people:

1. Those who want to cry.
2. And those who are crying already and want to stop
I think I'll fall in love with a reader. Someone who can't stop reading, even if it's just to go to the store or to get coffee. I think I'll fall in love with someone who had a craving for words. I think I'll fall in love with someone who sees the good and the bad in ever person but loves them regardless. I think I'll fall in love with someone like me. But dear God, I hope I don't fall in love with someone like me because they'll be temperamental and moody and probably a little crazy. I wanna draw words on people. Like when they wake up in the mornings answer their skin is echoing of ink and all the love I wanted them to feel it would all be there, written down.Who knows.Published with Blogger-droid v2.0.9
“I’m sorry I do nothing for you.”

it was a two second rain between us and already the ground was drying. her eyes darkened as if storm clouds. and I sensed the water coming in. there is much that needs to be said, but drowning is some sort of screaming. she is air escaping to the surface. I am, there are places I cannot go to or reach.  the string around my wrist unties itself. my balloon is gone.

“Are you awake?” whispers the past in his ear.

The Artistry of Leaving

They asked me what leaving felt like. Easy, I said. I told them that I’d stitched every flaw I’d picked up from the floor into a wall-wide canvas and sat bent knees, staring for hours until I learned to hate the way you moved. After that it was a ten step process to packing suitcases as tight as handwriting at the Doctor’s offices and scrawling a short note ‘it hasn’t worked’ barely legible, you had to squint to see ‘I’ve left you lasagne in the fridge. Please learn to cook.’

Mostly I picked up things from the floor. The snarl of your mouth, I retained, made you look ugly. I tucked it into my pocket and kept it there, pulled it out to remind myself when I began to love you again. That happened less and less. You waited for your coffee to get cold before you drank it, so I stopped brewing it and we argued. That helped. The raised voices felt like salt against the inside of my throat, you said ‘selfish’ and I smiled because threads began to make pictures and I could stare a…
Always talking about
flames; I used to be
great, you know; matchbox
hearts stay damp.

I wonder what it’s like to have someone fall for you. And I mean really fall for you. Not just they want to get in your pants because they think you’re attractive. But be consumed with every little piece of you. The way you talk, the way you laugh, the way you just exist.

To everyone in love: you don’t know how lucky you are.


I find that we tend to be less cautious in the nighttime, it is too hot to sleep and we have stopped caring around midnight and the fifth glass of cheap wine. Because drunken thoughts mean honest tongues and sober hearts so to speak, and I'll just pretend not to remember what you told me in the morning.

How to kill a feeling

(for simplicity's sake, you can't)
Once you're done with the shovel,
you leave a grave unmarked, am I right? but this is the wrong sort of place to be thinking of things like this, but you can't help it if you still feel the ghosts.

Here, here and here

when people tell me they love me,
I can't help feeling more than just a bit guilty
(juts out of me; external fixation)

all because I take up the woods in their hearts, and the warmth in their reds, and we all know how rivers rage, and how everyone can do better than me, because nowhere is anywhere for glass like me.

Authors' Note

This is a work of fiction. Still, given an infinite number of possible worlds, it must be true on one of them. and if a story set in an infinite number of possible universes is true in one of the, then it must be true in all of them.

So maybe it's not as fictional as we think.
And I never quite know what to say when you're upset, and it tears me apart that I can't always help you.

 Just that I'm always here for you, and if you ever fall, I'll be here to catch you, and if you ever feel lonely at four in the morning, I'll be here to talk to you.

 Know that I'm aware of all your pain, and all the sadness you have, and I'm willing to help you carry it.

Just know that I love you, and that it trips my heart apart to know that you're not happy at all.
Driving by in the evenings is different, because the years pass by and it’s been four since then, (I counted, once, not long ago I swear, it was twenty two months. Only.) and I still wish we could’ve been something. I still wish I had something to remember you by, because I’ve been praying to the winds to take memories away from me these days. In my dreams you’re still fifteen, and still not old enough to drive, and there I will always be looking at you like some sort of magic I could swear you are were. Mornings always hurt the most.
If you are one of those lost souls, wondering and waiting for something better to happen, then allow me to tell you this: it has to get worse before it gets better.
Time will only tell. Please be patient. Don’t give up.
I see that your hopes and expectations are scattered on the ground, battered from thorough and repetitive use. You held it in times of your retribution, you kept it close when your heart shattered, and you gripped it tightly when you most needed it. But something inside of you broke and you left it to wither away on the ground. Why should you need it when it has failed you countless of times?
Pick it up. You’ll need it for the times to come.
And can I promise you that one day, things will get better.
I want to live in a small apartment and cuddle every night,
but I'd miss you while I work.
And when we come home,
we can make each other laugh,
and make food,
and make love.

We'd have early morning pillow talks
and sunset with cuppas.

A lot.

But you're so scared;
and I'm too damaged.

Be with someone who is proud of you

Someone who, first and foremost, takes pride in being with you and wouldn't dream of keeping you on the down low. Someone who acknowledges your accomplishments and your strengths, but is also there to help you when your weaknesses get the best of you.

Someone who is proud when you succeed and supports your fully, but is also there to pick you up when you fall down. Someone who feels blessed and lucky to have you and appreciates you and your efforts no matter how little or big they may be.

Someone who know that nobody could compare because they've already found someone who embodies all that they've ever wanted.

Do you know how satisfying it is to have somebody who actually realizes just how good they have it when they have you?

The people you love becomes ghosts inside of you and like this you keep them alive.