I have never been one to write letters that begin with dear
I have never been one to write letters at all, actually
I have never been one to say hello or smile that much
because I hate my voice and how my mouth curls
so crudely into something more of a grimace.
For me the past isn’t a series…
i. she was fire.
whenever the sunlight caught her hair in just the right way, she glowed.
i should’ve known that she would burn me someday.
ii. she was sunshine.
her eyes were brighter than the sun could ever be.
they held so much warmth that i didn’t think it would ever run out.
iii. she was the center of the universe.
every time she walked into a room, time seemed to stop.
if only it actually had.
iv. time can heal wounds.
maybe it’s because it creates those scars in the first place.
time destroyed us.
v. i look at her now and see a ghost.
her hair does not know how to handle sunshine.
the radiance of her smile plays on her lips but never makes it.
my heart stops every time i see the past in the present.
vi. she was mine.
There is a story
resting in your bones,
and I’d be glad to
help you print it
I’m looking for new
ways to fall
apart, and maybe
your arms could
be the river
to catch this
I was fourteen when I met the boy
who would change my outlook on life forever.
I was fourteen when I put my trust into someone else’s safe,
and never asked for a copy of the key.
When you’re fourteen, you’re not thinking of the downfall.
You don’t contemplate the consequences.
It’s all sneaking out at night and doing things you know you shouldn’t;
getting drunk on boys and cheap wine.
I was fourteen when I was first threatened by a male.
I was fourteen when someone I trusted first
laid their hands on me
with no kindness in their eyes.
I was fourteen when I was kicked to the ground
for the night because I dared
to have friends.
I was fourteen when I was cornered with a raised fist
and the words,
“god, I want to hit you so bad.”
I was fourteen when I realised I was decaying rapidly
with every sentence he ever said.
It took two years and three months to chew my leg out
of the bear trap
that was my last relationship.
It took two years and three months to finally stand up for myself.
I was fourteen when I let someone else dig my grave for me,
but I was seventeen when I pushed him in.
Yesterday on Tumblr I saw a post that said
“We are all addicted to something that takes the pain away”
And it had every triggering picture I could imagine:
A handful of pills,
and a young girl purging.
And it made me sick
Because they glorified the unhealthy things that took away the pain.
What about healthy things that take away the pain?
What about talking to a friend,
Listening to music,
Watching your favorite TV show,
Or taking a bubble bath?
It sounds cheesy, but it doesn’t glorify years of suffering.
It doesn’t trigger anyone.
So why do we glorify deadly addictions
And not healthy coping mechanisms?
i. if you give up, i will feel it. the tip of my tongue will tingle with words i never got to say to you, and my skin will ache for your touch and my heart will try to march right out of my ribcage to go find you. you promised me you wouldn’t give up, and whether or not you intend to make good on that, i will make sure you do. i will feel it when your soul goes to sleep, and i will be there with a bucket of ice-water to dump on it the second it does.
ii. my father was constantly telling my mother to ‘be serious for one fucking second’ and ‘take that hat off, you look like a child’ and ‘quiet down your goddamned kids’. eventually, she listened. do you have any idea how long it’s been since i’ve heard my mother sing? actually, not that long. not since he left, anyway. before that, though? a really long time.
iii. i can’t get my hands to stop shaking. i think they’re scared.
iv. if i don’t pay attention to what i’m doing, i become dangerous. my foot relaxes on the gas until i’m speeding into the wrong lane, or i pick the skin on my fingers until it bleeds, or i push too hard with the pencil and rip right through the paper. on my own, i am dangerous. this is why i believe i am not designed to be alone.
v. i’m trying, i’m trying, i’m trying. i swear to god, i’m trying. it’s not easy, but i’m trying. i. am. trying.
vi. i do not feel beautiful today. talk to me, but do not look at me. hear my voice, but do not ask why it shakes. hoover dam’s made of popsicle sticks today and they’re not even good ones. some dollar-store variety pack shit that’ll never withstand more impact than a soft breeze or whispered ‘hello’ and god knows, you don’t want to be around when it bursts.
Working hard for something we don’t care about is called stress; working hard for something we love is called passion.
The cure for anything is salt water—sweat, tears, or the sea
You’re looking for a poem to tell
you why your heart is broken
into every piece. You’re looking
for someone to compare all the
ways he didn’t love you to a rose
and how even when it turns
black with death, it’s still lovely.
There aren’t words that will
make your phone’s silence
easier, trust me. You’re alone
tonight and he’s probably
thinking about someone else;
there’s nothing poetic about that.
Maybe it doesn’t matter who loves us, but how well we love when the world tells us not to.