Truly, I have never been as tired. My eyelids feel as heavy as the moon. I want to be rocked to sleep, like an infant. But I don’t want my mothers arms to do it, she is so small and fragile, I would most likely break her. And by now, she can not provide the comfort I seek. My chest is ready to cave in with this unbearable coldness, I feel as though I must yield to it because there is no way to keep warm. I want to crawl into my crisp sheets and doze off in pure reverie. But as of now, I am not entirely in the mood to wake up again. My feet are eager to cup circles around your ankles. Except, I don’t know who “you” are. In fact I never know who it is I am writing for. But I feel as though my hands and feet have been alone for a very long time now, as well as every other inch of my body. I’m collecting dust in this position I have been sitting, the way books do when no one has grazed their pages in decades. At times I wonder if my thoughts will ever belong to anyone, or if my body will be collecting dust until I am so far under not a single being will find me. But, I suppose I am not like those books, because I am not as readable.
Roses are red, violets are blue fuck you whore. -500 Days of Summer
“The only way you can write the truth is to assume that what you set down will never be read. Not by any other person, and not even by yourself at some later date. Otherwise you begin excusing yourself. You must see the writing as emerging like a long scroll of ink from the index finger of your right hand; you must see your left hand erasing it.”
-Margaret Atwood (via autumnfires)
She was lost in transition. Memories consuming her insides, previous words slipping through the cracks in her teeth and the slides of her tongue. Pining to a greater power to fix her with a fresh pair of eyes. Ones that may show light, and the delicacy of the earth. Ones that she may decorate with color and black lashes long enough to spread wings and bashfully flow against cheeks. They will be her fortitude. Kisses will lay stolen atop eyelids, and she will know comfort. Old eyes that hold foreboding despair may finally close and rest easy. And maybe someday, when winters chill awakens, and she sits alone atop the shivering floor boards she may wear them once again. First, nourishing them delicately between elongated fingers, then slipping them on like lace. Memories that her fresh pair of eyes were tamed to conceal, would engulf her, and her old eyes would weep, because they missed remembering, because they missed feeling. She wore those eyes like it was a Sunday, mournful like her daddy’s funeral.
How am I to stay here, when my heart is secured some place else? Alone, and fragile, I can still feel its aches. The wind is brushing it around and stealing its warmth and it is no longer encased inside of me. That is why there is no beat when you put your hand to my chest…do you feel it? no. that is because I have lost it. lost it, how could you? I left it behind purposefully. I just didn’t know we would be separated for so long. I have lost it and I am petrified. What am I to do? Live on with out its comfort? Or fight my way back to it. Dear Heart, I’m sorry you’re neglected. But I can not write you letters, because there is no address to send it to. I would send you all my love, but you hold that inside of you. xo
I hate when condescending, conceited boys feel like they can state anything about you and expect you not to turn in your seat and look upset. hey, yeah you, fuck you. if only i had the spunk to do so.
nostalgia- [no-stal-juh, -jee-uh, nuh-] -noun
-a wistful desire to return in thought or in fact to a former time in one’s life, to one’s home or homeland, or to one’s family and friends; a sentimental yearning for the happiness of a former place or time.
a wistful or excessively sentimental sometimes abnormal yearning for return to or of some past period or irrecoverable condition.
I want to tuck post cards behind doors and collect tea boxes, and coffee cups. I want to write letters and stuff them between words in library books. Read poetry to little old ladies and little old women. I want adventure. To row a boat and break the calm of the sea. To climb mountains and carve names into the stones beside me. I’m wishing for a mouse to curl into the wrinkles of my coat pockets, so I can reach in and feel his ribs humming, and his heartbeats puttering against my thumb nail. He does not know that he is safe with me, but he is. I want the distance between you and I to fold and curl until I feel your breath pounding against the cool air and smell your skin warm with the scent of nicotine. I want to play with fingers and heal worn over scars. Hug ribs and write words in honey on your walls. My fingers sticky and sweet, tickled pink by coffee spills and hot tea cups. And sometimes when you are tucked away in sheets made of linen, I want to mumble you poems that you’ll hear in your dreams. I want to know what you’re made out of, are your lungs black with cigarette smoke, are your bones as chilled as mine feel? Are you ever cold, do you ever shiver?