prose

At lunch, I think about your hands, and that’s it. That’s my spine unloosening for the day. That’s all the ocean in my belly heading straight to the shore of my throat. I think about your hands and suddenly, I don’t know what to do with mine. Suddenly my fingers are not my fingers but the empty space between them where yours should be. I am all missing, I lose myself for the day and leave to find you. I misplace my throat because it is clasped in the cup of your hand. I leave my bitten lips on your bedside table. My thighs have the ghosts of bruises unfurling into poppies, like bloodstains on snow. I break things because I am shaking and I am shaking because you are not with me and you are not with me because we are just learning to touch each other through the spaces between us. It is violent that we cannot touch each other, yet. It’s a war crime. It should be illegal that my fingers still haven’t learned the notches of your back. I think about holding your wrist in the O of my thumb and my index finger. I think about kissing the blue veins there. I think about careful mouth touches, and the tender of you. The warm, soft hollow of you, and how I lose my bottom lip wondering about yours. I’ll kiss you there, I promise. I promise.
—  Azra.T., “These wrists, these eyes, these praying hands.”
I want to give myself to someone, so whole heartedly that I never forget how it feels. And if it ends in destruction and I am returned in pieces, I want to write down instructions so I recall how to mend myself, bit by bit, all over again.

I’ll say to him: “If we are going to end, let’s end in fireworks, not a fizzle and a pop. You are the universe; and everything else seems small. Let’s begin with a bang - we only have so long. Even stars die eventually.”

—  S.Z.
First draft: let it run. Turn all the knobs up to 11. Second draft: hell. Cut it down and cut it into shape. Third draft: comb its nose and blow its hair. I usually find that most of the book will have handed itself to me on that first draft.
—  Terry Pratchett
I am a mess in your arms as I stare at your face. I try to memorize the way your bones cut into your cheeks like they’re trying to make a point and I wonder if that gap in your chest ever makes it hard to breathe. You are so pretty. You are pretty in the way that blood can sometimes be the perfect shade of red. You are beautiful in the same way that my bed feels perfect for my body when I am too sad to move for four days straight. I try to count the colours in your eyes, all green and gold and grass and sun, fighting each other for first place next to your pupil, and I wonder if you ever think of me like I think of you, and before that thought even finishes,  I know the answer is no. But I smile at you anyway as you lean in to kiss me. Because I think your heart is very tender, even if it isn’t mine.
—  January 29th, 2015 (K.P.K)

the truth is, when the mouth of the beast you’re running from gets big enough to swallow you up, there is a reason you won’t reach out anymore. it doesn’t really make sense for people who haven’t been there but when you’re in the throat of the demon and about to be dinner something about a stranger saying “you are perfect and beautiful” when they know nothing about you feels more like a disease than a wonderful thing it hurts because they’ll tell you “you’re strong enough to hold that rope” when they’ve never been suspended six inches above stomach acid and it’s not like you’ll reach out to the people you know because god forbid you’re a burden god forbid your voice gets heard no the truth is, everyone in this world can love you and there are days where it doesn’t even matter because the beast won’t let it and no matter how many likes or reblogs you get on a “talk me out of suicide” post it’s not going to save you (not that you’d get any) so the truth is you don’t bother writing them and even when you’re brave enough to say something like “bad day please distract me” you delete it before anybody else really sees because the truth is you’re the only one who sees the dark creature and whomever assigned you this story forgot to make you a knight in shining armor you’re just a little kid with bad hands and bad lungs and a bad brain spinning into nothing and one day you’ll be staring at your pale wrists thinking “oh god what have i done”

1.

Empty your heart of hate every single night and try, try, try with all your might to fill it with love for the next morning. (If you don’t, you let it fester, and the only person you truly hurt is yourself.)

2.

No matter what happens to you, never ever lash out at someone who is trying to love you and make it better. (If they didn’t love you, they wouldn’t be there.)

3.

Learn from everyone, and keep an open mind. You are an ever evolving, ever growing soul and so is every person around you. (Everyone you meet knows something you don’t.)

4.

Some days are going to be heartbreaking, hard and exceptionally challenging. And this is going to be so hard, but you need to find something to be thankful for especially on those days. (There is always something to be thankful for, even if sometimes it is really really hard to see.)

5.

The moment you stop putting expectations on people and let them be who they are, is the moment that you become the person people are glad to know and call a friend. (Be patient, baby. Please be patient.)

6.

You do not meet people by accident. Be kind to everyone. (Because everyone is carrying within them a great sadness that you only see in their eyes)

—  Six Lessons I Learned to be Happy | Nikita Gill
When you wanted to laugh at me, you sometimes held back just incase you thought I would be offended but when I laughed at myself too, I heard you laughing twice as hard. The sound of your chuckle cancelled out the obnoxious noise of mine and I guess it was okay for me to snort, occasionally, because that made you laugh even harder. You liked to sleep with two pillows. I remember asking why you needed two when you only had one head and you laughed and tried to explain that you could never have enough pillows, and I didn’t understand until you shut me up by kissing me and laid one of them beneath my head so my hair wouldn’t be too tangled when we were finished; but my hair was so messy, even a detangler couldn’t help me the next morning. The cold rarely affected you. It was 50 degrees and I was wearing a jacket but you only had a sweatshirt, and I nearly cried with the sound of the howling wind but you laughed at me. “I’ll turn on the heater,” but by the end of the night, the sheets needed to be made, and I was sweating. You covered me with a blanket anyway as we laid there, just giggling like teenagers after their first kiss and I was so high and drunk off of you those nights. You thought I was so unhealthy because of my unconditional love for desserts. “Chocolate is my one true love,” I said and you rolled your eyes. “You know, it’s terrible for you to eat only desserts,” you said. But you continued to buy my favourite flavour of ice cream and cupcakes to surprise me. And I didn’t mind that one bit. You had two brothers; all just as intelligent as you are, with a great GPA and enrolled in an excellent college. You talked about them and your mother and your father and how every major holiday, your mother would request your return so she could cook a big dinner for you all. You said she made the best desserts, that I’d probably love them. You promised to bring me some one day. I think I left too many half-empty water bottles in your room. Every time I left, there would be one with my lipstick stain on it. I drank too much tea and coffee and you stuck to hot chocolate. Who was getting dessert, now? You tried hard to be good but I made you order waffles for me, plus two scoops of ice-cream on top. Your eyes were simply brown but your looks came with questions and conviction. When we watched television together, the weight of my head made your arms fall asleep but you just shrugged and took it. I wish you had said more than what I understood, because I didn’t always get it. You knew more than you led on. You were a psychology minor; you read me so easily. Sometimes when I looked at you, I just wanted to run my hand through your hair, look you in the eye, and tell you we were going to be okay. I wanted to say that we’d make it some day.
—  Things About You (And I) by Ming D. Liu
If I’m calling you tonight it’s to tell you that I forgive you and I am happy. I’m glad that I got to share a part of my life with you and I was so lucky to have loved you and to have been loved by you at the same time because in life- not many people can say that the person they loved enough to set the world on fire for was willing to burn down with it but I can and I know that you too, will someday share our story with your grandchildren and they will learn. Sometimes you can’t be with the people you love but that never makes you love them any less.
—  I Love You But It’s Okay Now // thewordsyouneverunderstood

Just for once, I want to be with someone who doesn’t have me paranoid about them hurting me. I want to find a person that gives me a sense of security, like when I look at them, I’m not worried about the mess I’ll become after they leave. The thought of heartbreak won’t even cross my mind.”

"God, just for once I want someone who won’t run away when things get tough, someone who won’t leave me in ruins and expect me to be able to put myself back together. I want someone who will try their very best not to break me, but if they do, they’ll be there to help me stitch myself back up and kiss my scars, both old and new; someone who I know will stay for as long as they can. Is that too much to ask for?

—  excerpt from a book I’ll never write #34
The older I get, and the more I read, the less interested I am in poems touching language alone, and the less interested I am in poems that contain little more than flights of fancy, superficial flourish, glibness, or cynicism, no matter how witty. Those are poems without hands, as full as they are sometimes of the rich multiplicity language affords us, in all those sprockets, pop stars, and jalopies. I have become deeply interested in sincerity, in work that risks sentimentality. Carver’s poem does for me what I hope my own poems do—reach out to the reader to say, Look, here we are together, isn’t it strange…
She had skin as smooth as glass
She had a smile that could calm the roughest of waters.
She had dark chocolates eyes and feathers for hands.
But after paying more attention, I learned that her eyes were as empty as they were dark.
I learned, that she sometimes had talons for hands because affection was a foreign concept.
I learned, that she had a walk that seemed like she carried boulders in her bag instead of books
But most of all, I learned that not everyone that seems happy truly is.
—  maxwelldpoetry, “A Friend I Remember”
Love is knowing that if he leaves I will be left heaving sobs and vomit into the toilet as I lay lifelessly on the bathroom floor. Love is knowing that I am giving him the power to break me and still melting into his arms each night as he sighs my name into my mouth. Love is giving him the gun and letting him hold it to my skull with quivering fingers. Love is deciding that should he choose to pull the trigger, he is the one thing I have worth dying for.
—  j.b., what I know of love.

how much content have you consumed today?
how many blogs have you visited?
how many feeds, memes, gifs did you spam to your friends?
are you even watching those youtube vids or do they just play in the background like your grandpa’s tv?
are people still complaining?
why bother listening
the internet lets us have conversations without even having to converse.
here look at this
i’m sharing
give—take
after that you can fill blank spaces in chat windows with filler text
muscle memory doesn’t need your brain to think
you know where the L, and the O keys are

lol

if that doesn’t feel substantial, be more genuine

HAHAHAH

don’t feel bad tho
we’re all feeling a little disconnected from each other
content doesn’t even matter
it’s you, remember
it’s all about you, it’s always been about you
you’re the ad revenue
what are you searching for
where did you go

who’s lonely?

studies show that LED screens affect sleep cycles
keep swimming
surfing
cycling
wave to the camera

or just flex

do you exercise enough?
cardio?
SQUATS?
yah, me neither
here, eat this healthy snack

it’s 4am
ppl are online but you don’t usually talk to them
haven’t for years
probably ‘mobile’ anyway

it’s okay tho
because tomorrow is a new day
new feeds to refresh
swipe down, swipe right, swipe left
more INTERNET to EXPLORE… errr
check your networks before you’re even out of bed
and again right out of the shower with a toothbrush still in your mouth

why isn’t there an app for that?

LIFE HACK

and you’ve already had three start up ideas just like that

it’s 2015

and you’ll never believe what happens next!

- @DanielToumine

It is strange for me at times to tell you that I miss you. I do. I miss you with every pore of my body and into the depths of my soul which you know is already yours.

Perhaps it’s physical presence. It must be. I feel you with and around me in the time that you aren’t here. Is that even possible? It could be a little reminder of something you have said or the look you have on your face when your eyes fall upon me or even the glances we steal even in a room full of people.

I want to tell you that I stare at orchids and tiger lilies when my eyes fall upon them and they pale in comparison to your beauty. It’s beyond the surface, you see. It goes into that soul of yours which I feel within me.

As my mind drifts off into those little kisses along the length of your spine and making love to you, it reaches the soul. How do I explain to you the burning desire for you which simultaneously sends cold shivers down my entire body and lights a raging fire within me? How do I explain the skipped heartbeats?

I write to you for the love I have for you is more than that shared by two physical beings. It is something I cannot explain.

It is strange for me at times to tell you that I miss you. I do. I miss you with every pore of my body and into the depths of my soul which you know is already yours.

I crave you.

—  Navin E. (an unsent love letter)
It never stop hurting
Not when you love someone , really and truely
The break up rips your heart open until all that you are pour out your Chest
And you can’t remember who you were before him
You have to change your alarms because the ringtone goes off
And you can smell his sheets, remember the feel of his hand resting on Your hip, the laughter that echoed in the lazy mornings
But eventually it hurts less,
You guys are still friends
You joke around and talk
You run in the same circle,
You dated for over a year, that doesn’t go away
And it hurts less and less until you barely register the dull ache in the Depths of your mind
Sometimes its 3am and you remember how much you love them
Your grief pours out just as fresh and painful as the first day
If a slightly different flavor
And you choke on the memories
It never goes away,not really
You just learn to live with the ache
—  It kills me how much I miss you sometimes—K.R (29/365)