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Showing posts from January, 2013
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i.
i sit down and watch the light pool on glass tabletops.
leaves rustle. i breathe, and collarbones
curl and collapse into themselves. my bones
are heavy, they always have been that they always tear
like paper. i heave as
i always have, the way my breaths seem to have gained
weight
and all they want to do is throw
themselves up,
the way i want to run away.
(the way i want to run away but i can never bring myself to.)

ii.
‘how would you kill yourself?’ (the most unlikely question from the daisy of an older sister.)
‘i’d walk into the sea, maybe like what virginia woolf did with stones in her jacket pockers. i want to be engulfed by the water alone. a drama i watched recently involved drowning, and a character, he talked about how hard the body fights to hold yourself back from opening yourself underwater. apparently the instinct, the will to live is natural. it’s called voluntary apnea, and it’s so strong that you pass out before the water even gets a chance to pour …
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I hate this. I hate all of this.Published with Blogger-droid v2.0.9

gone.

And i am sorry.Published with Blogger-droid v2.0.9
I looked up at the stars
and reached out for you,
but you were nowhere
to be found.
You were just like the moon -
the closer I got to you,
the further you seemed.
And you weren't gravity,
but I could still feel you

pulling me down.
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Maybe I'm a little sad.

Sometimes it's too hard to smile. Sometimes there's nothing to smile about. What do you do when everyone is moving and you just can't? I'm stuck. I don't know what to do. I never know what to do.

And you know what?

I don't think I'll ever know what to do. Sometimes it's just easier to hide under my covers and ignore everyone. You know, sometimes I even ignore myself.

Do you know that was possible?
Because it is.
It's one of my talents.
Ignoring myself.
Maybe I'm just a little more than just "sad".

.

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It’s been a few hours, you’ve just been hanging there. You’ve been quiet, too quiet. Usually there’s music playing, or your foot steps could be heard. But today, you’re quiet. Your little sister, who doesn’t normally come to greet you because you lock yourself away, decides to see what you’re doing. She assumes you’re taking a nap, or doing some homework quietly. She runs up the stairs, eager to see, but she comes to an immediate halt. You’re not doing your homework, nor taking a nap. Your music isn’t playing and you aren’t walking around. You’re hanging there, completely still, now just like her. At this moment, her whole world shatters. Everything she has ever known, looked up to, loved, is hanging there by a thread. At this moment, her life has been changed forever. At this moment, she wishes she was hanging with you.

Before you decide to take your life, imagine who will find you. Imagine them walking into a room, and seeing you just hanging there. Whether it be your…
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Everyone wants to give a writer the perfect notebook. Over the years I’ve acquired stacks: One is leather, a rope of Rapunzel’s hair braids its spine. Another, tree-friendly, its pages reincarnated from diaries of poets who now sit in cubicles. One is small and black like a funeral dress, its pages lined like the hands of a widow. There’s even a furry blue one that looks like a shag rug or a monster that would hide under it— and I wonder why? For every blown out candle, every Mazel Tov, every turn of the tassel, you gift-wrap what a writer dreads most: blank pages. It’s never a notebook we need. If we have a story to tell, an idea carbonating past the brim of us, we will write it on our arms, thighs, any bare meadow of skin. In the absence of pens, we will repeat our lines deliriously like the telephone number of a parting stranger until we become the craziest one on the subway. If you really love a writer, fuck her on a coffee table. Find a gravestone of someone who sha…

I was going to cry for you but it’s my own tears I’m choking on -

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he told me there had been an accident - a poem

I know a boy who loved a girl. I knew a boy who wanted to
marry a girl. I know a boy whose love became the barrel of his favourite
gun, a boy whose words became the gossamer of his stitches, and
a girl who admitted to hating love, a girl who let him fall
through
her fingers
like sand. (but he was the sea,
and she was the first
to draw the arrows) I knew
a boy whom I helped bandage;
a boy who loved his murderer while
I acquainted myself with the shrapnel he
lodged deep within the crevices of
his chest. I knew a boy I saw bleed
in my own arms, (some nights I remember how
the scarlet stained my skin) and I know a girl who fucked
so carelessly when it was
his heart in
her mouth. I knew a boy who could never
sleep because there were ghosts keeping
him up all night. I knew a boy who presumably cried
as he heaved himself through the doors of Room #07-02. 
It was I who
lugged his body down
the stairs. I knew a girl who believed
that tomorrow
the stars would shine brighter; a g…

"I'm burning up a sun just to say goodbye"

I am just sorry that she had to be your fortune cookie - broken; so that you can learn something you already should have known.

Don’t over expect.

Our mind loves to go on a roller coaster and think that some things will work out exactly the way we wish them to, as unrealistic as it may seem. Unfortunately, the world doesn’t work that way and there are just too many variables for us to predict what is actually going to happen. When you over expect an outcome from a person or a situation, you are most likely going to end up disappointed because it’s never what you thought it would be.
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Have you ever felt like oyu could burn the world down?

Because

I always feel like running away.
There is no such place.
If there was I would have found in by now.
It's easier to run; easier than staying and finding out you're the only one who didn't rn.
Running will be the way your life and mine will be described; as in "the long run", or as in having given someone "a run for him moment", or as in "running our of time:,
Running makes me look like everyone else; though I hope there will never be cause for that.
I will be running in the other direction; not running for cover.
If I knew where cover was, I would stay there and never have to run for it; not running for my life.
I have to be running for something of more value, to be running and not in fear.
The thing I fear cannot be escaped, eluded, avoided, hidden from, protected from, gotten away from, not without showing the fear, as I see it now.
Closer, clearer, no sir, nearer.

Because of you, and because of that nice, that you quietly, quickly be causing, an…
We were tangled legs and emotions. The wires of us were dipping into state lines electrified with the resonance of our feelings; they’d lit up a whole town in the west with their light. I woke up with a throbbing headache and wax eyelids because we’d poured kisses into tumblers and drank them straight from the glass, drunk on the taste. You’d tipped back the bottle and swallowed, laughed at my expression.

You were staring out of the window to the tired dawn when I raised my head and pressed my chin to your chest, leaving the indent of my skin there. Absently (there were ghosts in your eyes) you raised your hand to brush my hair away from my shoulder, bent down to sear your mouth there. My eyes closed because you were more real to me than anything I’d known, but you were a shadow too. There were things haunting you that I couldn’t fix. Spirits of the things you’d seen and the people you’d wounded with your words.

“Are you okay?” I asked.
Your hand closed around the nap…

things i have learnt in 2012

a home will never be a home unless the skin over your bones fits and falls the way you like it to, and unless the wind caressing your face pulls your lips into a smile.it is impossible to lose your words; they’re the ones you feel inscribed in your ribs, the ones you know are just there. the ones you know will bloom, some day.it’s never your fault.the rumbling in your gut is the beating of miles upon miles of oceans in your heart: don’t be too scared of it, but don’t let yourself sink.be thankful stephanie savage and josh schwartz don’t run your lives.you don’t need a reply for everything.wolves will run but will you run with them?you’re far too fucking young to lose to fate.

She looked at me until I fell in love with her.

“It’s like there’s something growing inside of me, something dark that steals the light. It’s like bacteria and it frightens me because I don’t think there’s anything salvageable left. I think I’m shipwreck. I think I’m feeding the ocean.”

She’d stare at herself in mirrors like she was looking hopelessness in the face. Her skin writhed with all of the things she’d lost. People (and ghosts) lived inside of her, haunted the soft edges of her patchwork frames and pressed against the inside of her skin in attempts to escape. Futile, she clutched her memories to her like gold. Her eyes were hollowed masks of broken sleep and thoughts that slipped away from her hands like mercury. Yearned for things that she couldn’t understand, poetry made her angry and the moon caused her pain for all beautiful things were too far away and eclipsed between two points that she couldn’t reach.

The stars made her weep.
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I am

Head over heels in love with the most amazing guy there is.And the best part is that, he loves me back.Published with Blogger-droid v2.0.9