prose

She said that she liked the taste of my kisses. She used to whisper that my breath smelled like a weird yet funny mixture of cigarettes and coffee.
Then, she slowly explained, like if it was no big deal, that my lips were the nicotine she was addicted to, and my tongue the caffeine that kept her up.
Now she kisses another man, with another breath, another tongue to taste.
And again i find myself all alone on the rooftop, drinking coffee to stay awake and smoking some cigarettes, trying to forget that we used to wait for the sunset like I’m doing at the moment.
And now i have that painfully familiar taste in my mouth again.
But no one to share it with.
—  Diego, “Town of the Colossus”

i had a best friend forever. it lasted until the end of high school. we’re still on good terms but she goes to school 200 miles away and both of us have moved on to other things.

i had a great idea of what i wanted tattooed on me forever. three years later i don’t know what i was thinking and i can’t stand the idea that it used to represent me: a little white butterfly in a cage. what a sad thing to hang on to permanently.

my father was supposed to love me forever, but it only really lasts until he’s angry again. i’ve gotten used to being a disappointment.

she asks me if i will love you forever and my heart stops because what if i jinx it what if i get it wrong i want this to be for always but every time i get attached to something it melts in my hands i don’t know what to do i don’t know what to say what if i try to make this forever and it just makes you go away

It’s going to hit you so hard. Trust me, because it struck me deep in the gut. Maybe you’ll figure out when the right side of the bed no longer has the lingering contortions of my body or you woke up without a cup of coffee on the dining table waiting for you. You wanted me, but not enough to show me so. You wanted me because I was there when no one else was; and darling, I cannot be just a renter in your heart. You cannot expect me to set up furniture, paint the walls with the color you want, and get comfortable, then evict me when my presence isn’t wanted that night. You cannot expect me to fill you up with warmth and affection, but then you turn away when I’m the one shivering for something. One day, it’s just going to hit you so hard. When they ask you about me or when you hear my name somewhere, you’ll realize it wasn’t me, darling. It was never me. It was you. It was always you. And that’s why I had to leave. I cannot carry us both when you want no part in being two.
—  (NJ.) // home is where the heart is, and you wanted my presence, not my heart
I never understood how people could be so excited to move out. As a senior in high school, I am still not sure what they meant. Yes, I look forward to long nights with new people and a future for myself, but there is so much sadness behind it all. When I think about college and what the next few months hold for me, my mind races. My heart beats faster every minute I consider my life away from home. I’ve eaten at the local diner with childhood friends. I’ve spent countless evenings chattering about in the Mexican restaurant across from my high school. I exchange glances with familiar faces in the aisles of the grocery store. There are memories and people here at home that I’m afraid to leave behind. More than anything, I don’t want to forget them. I don’t want to forget the little things, because those are what matter the most. Here, I have learned hardship and love and everything else I could possibly know. This is where I’ve grown up. This is where I’ve lived for eighteen years, and now it’s time to pack up and leave it all behind. What about my mother? How much will she cry when I’m gone, finally living without her? Will my brother shut himself in his room, feeling empty without big sis to lean on or drive him to school every morning? My father won’t know what to do with himself without his little girl. But I’m not so little anymore, and it’s killing me. I’m falling into this abyss we call the real world and it’s filled with so many possibilities. I don’t know where to start. I don’t know what to do. I guess I have to start somewhere, so I’ll make a list. Perhaps I’ll make a list first of everyone I need to say goodbye to. Then I’ll make a list of all of the traditions I need to carry on one last time before I leave. Lastly, I’ll write out all of the things I’ll need to take with me on my journey. Who knows, maybe I’ll be back here again someday. After all, I’m not dying. I’m just moving on.
—  emschleg
i) i want to write about how i keep running my fingers over your skin, because i’m afraid that if i keep my hands still you will disappear;
ii) and how every time i touch your face, i try to memorize it - just in case, i try to commit it to memory in my fingertips;
iii) and i have novels in my head about the way your lips taste, pages upon pages about cinnamon and coffee and jasmine and i swear there is a hint of oak as well, and smoke, musky smoke and future or what i think future tastes like - sweet, and promises, secret and whispered and just ours, but how can a kiss taste like time standing still, like magic? how do i write a poem about it?
iv) i want to write about the fears, but see there are too many - the ones where i’m the bad guy and the ones where you are, and then, the really, really scary ones - the ones with no bad guy, with just life;
v) and i have all these dreams but writing them down is like wishing defeat, it’s like admitting that they were never anything more than dreams one has at 20, they were never anything more than a phase, a way to grow up and grow into a job and a life that i always should have wanted, that comes with insurance and a parking space and an office with a door and a phone that rings and that i answer with hello (devoid of any sarcasm course);
vi)
i wish,
i wish i could write about things,
you and me, and fears and dreams and life, i guess, the way it is - messy and imperfect and god-damn-it-so-fucking-scary, and i wish i could write it all down until it makes sense, until i’m no longer afraid, but see - i keep trying, i keep trying, over and over again, but i can’t seem to scratch beneath the surface;
vii)
i wish i could write all the scary bits away, leave all the ugliness on a page; and write you in - into the middle and the end and all the bits in between, like how we wake up and have breakfast with bitter, boiling, black coffee, and how we lead ordinary lives, and live in a house with a white fence and a red roof and a tree house for kids to hide in and us to get drunk in; i want to write us happy, forever, or at least for-as-long-as-it-matters.
—  m.v., a twenty-something’s word-vomit (i miss you and i can’t sleep).
There is life without love. It is not worth a bent penny, or a scuffed shoe. It is not worth the body of a dead dog nine days unburied. When you hear, a mile away and still out of sight, the churn of the water as it begins to swirl and roil, fretting around the sharp rocks — when you hear that unmistakable pounding —when you feel the mist on your mouth and sense ahead the embattlement, the long falls plunging and steaming — then row, row for your life toward it.
—  Mary Oliver, from “West Wind,” West Wind
You are not your mistakes. You are not your low grades or failed exams. You are not your bleeding wounds. You are not the words that you weren’t able to say properly because you were too nervous to speak. You are not your shaking hands or trembling knees. You are not your fears. You are not the nightmares you scream about last night. You are not the darkness that continuously creeps to your bed after midnight. You are not their sorry eyes or blank stares whenever you apologize for the things that you have done wrong. You are not a walking apology. You are not a skyscraper collapsing to the ground. You are not the reason why they leave or why they can not say those three words back. You are not their rejection. You are not the tears you endlessly release when nobody’s listening. You are not the smile you fake or the lies you make every time you say “I am okay.” You are not your weaknesses. You are not a mess or the ruins they left behind.

You are healing. You are hope. You are the own light you use as you navigate through the darkness of the tunnel you’re into. You are getting better. You are the steps you make in spite of being terrified of what is waiting for you on the other side. You are your big heart that is strong enough to contain all the love that you want to give. You are getting back up even after falling how many times. You are putting yourself back together. You are improvement. You are trying in spite of how many failed attempts. You are growing. You are your two feet that are strong enough to leave behind the ones that are destroying you. You are eyes ready to accept the image that is staring back at the mirror. You are the mornings you face after nights of misery. You are forgiveness. You are love even after the storm. And you can be so much better than you were yesterday.
—  n.a., Who You Are

Emotions are meaningless to our actions
God, you could love someone so much
and fuck up everything
Or not care for them at all
yet do everything perfectly
So don’t you dare promise me the future
Don’t you dare dream of tomorrow

Who knew how fast people change

—  "they say it gets better with time" // a story a day #34 by d.y.
Bless the souls who live everyday consumed by a darkness heavier than anchors holding down a ship,
They walk the world with tattered hearts and lips so tightly stitched.
The moon knows their secrets, but their lovers do not.
They hide behind fake smiles when the sun shines, and drown in seas of sadness when the stars are in the sky.
Laced with a numbness from head to toe, faces hard as stone,
Wishing that someone could see that their minds are so full they are about to explode.
Defeated from a battle they fight by the hour,
Collapsing on the bathroom floor from feeling as if they carry the weight of the world on their shoulders.
As sad as grey skies in the summer,
Lifeless but surviving like nature come December.
—  Say hello when you see them

I have been cursed by you since the moment you set eyes on me, all intense and electric.

You said, “You’re different.”

And I inhaled you in like sweet perfume amongst burning, raging flames.

I said, “I don’t need darkness in my life and you’re reeking of bad news.”

But I’ve always been attracted to fire like moth to lighted candles and bad, wicked things have a way of casting spells on me.

"I will never be your Prince Charming." You whispered into the night.

Darling, I know, I know. You’re my evil witch. And your love is the apple I have unwittingly bitten oblivion with.

—  Happy Never After

Genefe Navilon

When I stuck two fingers in my mouth and flipped him off I didn’t expect him to say 
“Can I kiss you?” 
and I’m sure he didn’t expect me to say 
“I mean, if you want.” 
In that moment I was fucked 
I wasn’t fucked because he kissed me, 
I was fucked because he sprung out of his chair and lifted me off the ground 
I was fucked because he pulled me onto his lap to kiss me 
I was fucked because he grabbed my hips 
I was fucked because he tasted like tobacco and weed and I didn’t fucking care 
That’s why I was fucked 
I was fucked because when we were done kissing
He sat down in the chair, with his laptop on his lap and I started to leave 
I was fucked because I ran back in the room and forced him to move the laptop 
I was fucked because I straddled him and kissed him 
I was fucked because of that 
I was fucked because we went to Walmart on Tuesday 
and he made me walk with him to the cosmetics to buy condoms 
I was fucked because he insisted I choose the ones he was gonna buy 
I was fucked because when we bought them, he walked around Walmart with the bag in the air pointing at me 
I was fucked because when I told him to stop, he asked for a kiss and I kissed him in the middle of fucking Walmart 
But it didn’t really hit me that I was fucked until we fucked the second time 
It hit me like when a bowling ball makes a strike 
Because before we fucked I seized and he stopped to say 
“We don’t have to do this, I want to make sure you’re okay”
or when he said 
“Do you need water? I can give you water.” 
And I looked down and smiled because he cared and no one’s ever really done that 
& then we fucked 
And in the middle of fucking, I seized again 
That’s when I became aware of how fucked I was because I was on top of him and he was inside me and he stopped to make sure I was okay, he brought me water, and kissed me, and then when I finished seizing, he made sure I wasn’t gonna seize again before continuing. 
& then the day after he left 
& he moved 
& he kissed me 
& I cried 
because he was the only one that made me feel like I wasn’t getting used for my body, 
but to be honest 
I was fucked the moment I met him because that’s when I started liking him 
& I wish I fucking told 
Because he’s gone and I’m still fucked. 
— 

I guess I fucked the right one, for once

m.n.