I wish for everyday that I lived I could write and think for another. but the days slip by and so one day so will all my writing no matter much – all will leave for where the days go
your name is a phantom pain,
tongue can no longer press against the vowels that remain
from good-byes born long before – what
and when? before eyes, voice, heart
join the slow burn of speaking a life of two syllables:
realise that I never knew how the first time.
without. apart. happier. space for half a table
filled with the meals already consumed, smell of charred thyme
filling the distance that watches you
slowly turning whole again.
art reminds you that it can be beautiful to be alone and alive
that it’s okay to be alive and in pain
what have I lost?
pieces of words, pieces of me
so who is sitting here?
anger and pride are eating me alive. I know that I’ve burned and will burn so many relationships with just this fault alone and yet… it’s hard to let go. it’s hard to let go of that fear – am I being patronised? being played? are you being nice to me only out of a sense of guilt or obligations? I’d rather keep my distance – even if we’ve got blood ties. but the guilt is eating me too
the answer? I should not overthink. perhaps its true. but there’s nothing I can do about that. all I can be is civil. when someone does not see the value in being warm or the ‘trivialities’ of caring there’s nothing in this world that I can do
you can’t hold a hand to hold yours
if someone argues that love is just chemicals – how do you change that idea? maybe they’re right …but what’s the use of being right? whats the use of winning every single damn argument when you lose the other
– not that the other cares right?
I need to stop seeing sadness. I need to stop! need to s t o p stop!!! I need to let others feel too… it’s their right to feel the full range of human emotions and I need to trust that they’ll fight their way out of whatever problems they have.. and even if they don’t, that’s ok there’s always another day, another life
it was the perfect set up
capitalism, the media, your friend’s Instagram, human unrealism told you today was going to be perfect
and then it was not
and then there was work
and then there was the hormones of your womanhood
wickedly pulling you into the depths
your legs don’t work. one of them is broken
your heart doesn’t work
emptied existentialist fears are coming back riding on the waves of work and afternoon heat
and you’re too tired to run. you can’t run.
you remember at 19 you’ll never run the way you did for the rest of life.
nothing works – what do people do on their birthdays?
Oh my god, I have forgotten
that I am not waiting.
Not lacking. I have everything inside to put myself back together.
So no, I don’t want anyone’s reassuring smile, anyone’s love that will lull me back into this crumbling.
I am perfectly okay. This life, this cool after-rain breeze,
this quiet evening I get to keep all for myself,
everyday, all of it, over and over again – for always.
I will fill my heart with evenings, with the peaceful expense of the sky, countless evenings.
They will pass into me.
And still I will be kind to others, to the world. Will not resent the evenings that I hug quietly
another shitty confessional ‘poem’ but girl I don’t care 🙂 I’ll write whatever I want to and be judged however I deserve to be.
I want to look ridiculous
look fiercely independent,
a harsh streak of colour on the soft sunlit pastels of perfect girls
I want it to scream something is damaged,
something is mine
this body, face, mistakes,
these wins. this heart.
they are all mine.
This sphere bleached chemical discolouration
tells you no one can love, crush your illusions for you – I’ll be my own antidote
not yours, not anyone’s.
There’s a fire in my limbs
it leaks out in rivulets
snakes south, twists past ravines of
3am thoughts turned second nature even when the sun is up.
Are aches just ghosts of what was once full flesh?
Or are they deadened receptors to the pain that still rears alive?