If we make it through the night, if we make it out alive ..
You said that you can save me Don’t hope to ever find me And I fear I’m too far gone .Pray for the dead.
I am the ocean, I am the sea There is a world inside of me
Under the cut, you will be able to find #196quotes from several blogs, books, movies and songs that can be used for characters/aesthetic/others, divided based on their length. All the quotes were found by me so if you use it, like/reblog. I hope you find it useful!!
aries: isle of flightless birds // We find our worth in giving birth and stuff || We’re lining our homes against winding roads || And we think the going is tough We pick songs to sing, remind us of things that nobody cares about || And honestly we’re probably more suicidal than ever now
taurus: taxi cab // I wanna fall inside your ghost || And fill up every hole inside my mind || And I want everyone to know || That I am half a soul divided || Sometimes we will die and sometimes we will fly away || Either way you’re by my side until my dying days || And if I’m not there and I’m far away || I said, “Don’t be afraid.” || I said, “Don’t be afraid. We’re going home.”
gemini: pantaloon // You are tired || You are hurt || A moth ate through || Your favorite shirt || And all your friends fertilize || The ground you walk || Lose your mind || He’s seen too many stare downs || Between the sun and the moon || In the morning air || How he used to hustle all the people || Walking through the fairgrounds || He’s been around too long
cancer: oh mrs believer // Oh, Miss Believer, my pretty sleeper || Your twisted mind is like snow on the road || Your shaking shoulders prove that it’s colder || Inside your head than the winter of dead || I will tell you I love you || But the muffs on your ears will cater your fears || My nose and feet are running as we start || To travel through snow || Together we go
leo: trapdoor // He wakes up early today || Throws on a mask that will alter his face || Nobody knows his real name || But now he just uses one he saw on a grave || He pretends that he’s okay || But you should see || Him in bed late at night, he’s petrified
virgo: addict with a pen // But no matter how || How tightly I will strain || The sand will slow me down || And the water will drain || I’m just being dramatic || In fact, || I’m only at it again || As an addict with a pen || Who’s addicted to the wind || As it blows me back and forth || Mindless, spineless, and pretend || Of course I’ll be here again || See you tomorrow || But it’s the end of today || End of my ways || As a walking denial
libra: before you start your day // Look in the mirror and ask your soul if you’re alright || Put out the glitter that your soul hides behind || You’re in my mind || I’m singing || You’re in my mind|| I’m singing la-da la-da la-da la-da la-da la-da da
scorpio: implicit demand for proof // I mean no disrespect || I am simply very perplexed || By your ways || Why won’t you let us || Use your name? || Rain down || And destroy me || Rain down || And destroy me || Rain down
sagittarius: march to the sea // No one looks up anymore || 'Cause you might get a raindrop in your eye || And Heaven forbid they see you cry || As we fall in line || And about this time of every year || The line will go to the ocean pier || And walk right off into the sea || And then we fall asleep
capricorn: johnny boy // He is falling in love || He knows it’s enough || And the world looks down and frowns || Get up Johnny boy, get up Johnny boy, || Get up ‘cause the world has left you lying on the ground. || You’re my pride and joy, you’re my pride and joy. || Get up Johnny boy because we all need you now.
aquarius: friend, please // I feel for you but when did you believe you were alone || You say that spiders crawled inside and made themselves a home || Where light once was || Petrified of who you are and who you have become || You will hide from everyone, denying you need someone || To exterminate your bones
pisces: fall away // I don’t wanna fall, fall away || I disguise || And I will lie || And I will take my precious time || As the days melt away || As I stand in line || And I die as I wait as I wait on my crime || And I’ll try to delay what you make of my life || But I don’t want your way, || I want mine || I’m dying and I’m trying || But believe me I’m fine || But I’m lying, || I’m so very far from fine
Give up your waters woman, become but a husk so that you are remade from your dust.
When I was little, I had a series of spells that would plague me at night. I would choke on my own breathe, until it felt like my body has closed itself up to world around me. Usually happening between the moments when I was just about to wake up from sleep, my body would seize as if I was stuck on the threshold of dreaming and waking.
Here I would have visions as my eyes welled up with tears and my mouth opened in silent gasps, screaming out for the deaths that are yet to come in my family. Until my parents would come rushing through the doors, and I would gulp down honey water to choke me awake with the sudden sweetness.
The sensation of losing your breath is as if you are becoming nothing, swimming through nothing, seeing nothing. Slowly.
When I was very little, I almost died. One of my lungs collapsed at night while I was sleeping, and liquid began to fill my throat till I could barely gulp down air. My mother heard me gasping in my cradle beside her bed, and rushed me to the Emergency Room.
Last night, I couldn’t stop drinking water and then expelling my waters until the flow became crystal clear. There came a knowing in my body that it was time for another passage into the world below and back. I filled my copper basin that have collected the ashes of my ceremonies for the past months with cold water from the tap, and sitting it in a triangle of wooden staves, floated a white candle in its depths.
My body heats, and morphs, and changes as my skin transforms serpentine, grow scales, wings of white feathers sprouting from my back, my breathing becomes none existent and this time I let it. For I know it is the mothers sitting with me.
I fall asleep to the light of my white candle, my fetch swimming through the oceans in my soul, waiting for the dream to come, to incubate as so many of us have done in temples and cells and caves and arbours in all the days before and after us.
You may see yourself swimming down a lake or well. You will see yourself pass through more layers or doors than you have ever thought possible, usually involving an increasing sense of claustrophobia or pressure as you get deeper and deeper. Eventually you will find yourself very close to the heart of the spiral, the ‘eye of the storm’ where things are weaved and unweaved. You will need to pass through and to do so you will need to be able to let go of everything of you that is mortal. You will also be stripped of the illusion of ‘up’ and ‘down’ and come to realize that in travelling ‘down to the bottom’ you have also reached the height of heights and are now in the stars.
- Lee Morgan’s A Deed Without A Name, page 133, from the chapter “The Water Below The Hills”.
As I woke up in the world of sleeping, I found myself inside the houses of my mothers. First I was in a small cottage by the Bayous of Louisiana, Maria making gumbo and fish head stew with black bread. The scent of her spices fill the tiny house with memories I didn’t know I had. She sprinkles a powder into my bowl of stew and whispers a prayer I can’t hear. “Time to meet your maker”, she says to me, and I think it’s my time to die.
“Not like that baby”, she responds, “You got more than one maker”.
I take the bowl into my hands, and as I take my first dip and bit, the scenes around me shift.
Now I am on the banks of a river, the earth yellow with minerals and nutrients rubbing warm dust beneath me. Around me are tents filled with women, they point to the rushing waters crashing against the jagged rocks, and tell me to get closer or I’ll never swim to shore. The bitter waters splash against my face, tasting of green things and ash. I am stripped down into my scales and fins, and dipping into the waters, my vision goes black.
When I can see again, I am in my middle school classroom in China. Before me is stretched rolls and rolls of paper, and I am spending an eternity writing out line after line. My middle school teacher, stern, manipulative, who in one breath can weep in front our parents for our supposed failures and then scream and hit us with her ruler behind their backs, stood looming over me. I pick up my pen, and begin to write as I always have in the past, never stopping until the alarm clock wakes me up from my slumber.
Time to meet your maker baby.
Is she my maker? I wonder to myself, this woman who was my mother for most days when my own mother left me there in that institution each morning, and came to pick me up late at night. Was she my maker? This stern, cruel woman who’s images blurs with that of my mother’s, with that of the many teachers before her who attempted to drill into my head a mother tongue I was suppose to know but could never quiet get the handle of. I feel my arms and run my hands over the cruel lines left behind by her stings and pinches and slaps and wrenching.
I look at the rough, thin paper under my hands, my pen scratching out symbols and characters I can no longer remember the meanings of.
No sun shone through the windows, everything was dark except for that single fluorescent light that shone above our heads.
Her shadow creeps through every corner of the wall, running against the lines of chalkboards that surround us, imposing their dark shadows against my body.
All those years of repetition, of stolen consent, of silenced voices. I did something I didn’t know I could do, and had never done in previous dreams like the one I am having now, in that claustrophobic classroom with that imposing teacher.
I put down my pen, I walk up to her, I look her in the eye, and I say, firmly, quietly, “no”.
And I walk away.
She weeps as the alarm sounds and my eyes open to the sun streaming through my window, cascading onto the sea of plants lining my room.
Give up your waters woman. I did. Become but a husk so you can be remade from your dust. Was I ever a mother? Was I ever in past lives a woman with a uterus who didn’t need to hide behind the masculinity she was assigned at birth because of her genitalia? Did I ever feel the sensation of pushing life out from between the lips of my legs, feeling a piece of me slip out of my body, into my arms? Or given away to another? Or take herbs poisonous to this life suckling in my womb so that I wouldn’t need to do this?
I look to the mothers of my line, and they gently move my head to look forward into the future.
Some things do not need to be carried with you for all the lives you will live love.
The spirit of a child I didn’t know I had been carrying within my belly laughs and gurgles with joy.
Backstory. When I was nine years old my parents told me that we were going back to China for a summer vacation. After packing our bags and taking that arduous fourteen hour plane ride back home, we began looking for elementary schools in my area a week after we landed. We didn’t come back to Canada for five years. I was placed in local elementary schools with a series of abusive homeroom teachers. They were the mothers that my own mother refused to protect me from. They placed their hands without my consent onto my body, their fingers digging into my mind against my will.
Shaping me, gaslighting me, manipulating me into the perfect little brain washed, teacher fearing, government fearing student that the communist regime in China desired from every family at the time.
I could never say no.
These past few nights have been my beginnings and continuations in correcting that mistake of the past.
For those who are unfamiliar with our system, at @sortinghatchats
when we say “Primary” we mean WHY people do things. When we talk about a
“Secondary” house we mean HOW they do things. For more description of
what we mean for each house, see our basics page here.
As her grandmother’s ghost says, Moana is “a girl from an island who
stands apart from the crowd.”
Brave and certain, knowing what she believes and striving to chase after it, Moana is a Gryffindor Primary
but her home and family ask her and expect her to be a Hufflepuff
Primary– to value first duty, community, tradition, and stability.
only person who does not tell her the way she is is wrong is her
grandmother, who dances with the sea and lets everyone think she’s
crazy, who tells Moana that “that voice inside is who you are.”
can fake that Hufflepuff Primary real well– but you can see it doesn’t
come intuitively to her. It is something her father painstakingly and
patiently taught her in “Where You Are.” Her father tries to teach her
about the island, about their people, traditions, and stability– but
Moana just keeps running to the sea.
“This tradition is our mission, and, Moana, there’s so much to do!” - Where You Are
the end of the song she’s singing her father’s words and story, ready
to be who she is supposed to. But this is something learned, and even as
she does it she’s looking to the water, to her grandmother dancing, to
Around the heart of her, which thirsts and stirs–“it calls me,” she builds a model that looks like the Hufflepuff she’s supposed to be.
on this island seems happy on this island… everybody on this island
has a role on this island, so maybe I can roll with mine.” -Moana, How Far I’ll Go
But while Moana seems largely effective in this modeling, she is still unhappy. This is who she is supposed to be, but not who she is, and as a young Gryffindor Primary this hurts.
can lead with pride, I can make us strong, I’ll be satisfied if I play
along, but the voice inside sings a different song. What is wrong with
me?” -Moana, How Far I’ll Go
once Moana accepts and begins to act as who she is and not who she is
“supposed” to be– taking the boat and setting out to find Maui– her
Hufflepuff model becomes not an uncomfortable mask but instead something
to rely on.
It is this back-up rigging that
catches her when she stumbles– after they face the lava demon Te Ka the
first time, are rebuffed, and Maui leaves. Moana’s Gryffindor, the
voice inside her heart, falters. She listened to it, believed it, and
now she has both failed and been abandoned. Adrift in a starlit sea, she
doubts. She loses the certainty that is the cornerstone of this brave
And what sweeps in to lift her up
is twofold: first, her grandmother, who had always been the defender of
her Gryffindor– one lone crazy voice in a world that runs on
Hufflepuff, the village loon, the village wise woman, who told Moana to
listen and dream and dare– who led her to the boats– the only one who
did not make her wonder what was wrong with her. “Nothing on earth can
silence the quiet voice still inside you,” her grandmother tells her.
second, the Hufflepuff her father tried so hard to teach her–that
sense of community, legacy, and tradition–sails past in a swell of
song. As a child, Moana cared about the sea, about the heroes of her
grandmother’s stories, the far horizon line. But her father showed her
the island, the people who would be hers, and sang to her until she
learned to sing along. As her Gryffindor falters, injured, her heart
feeling stolen from her chest– her people, her legacy, her community,
and her traditions come sweeping out of the night to remind her. They
lift her up so she can find her feet again.
the call isn’t out there at all. It’s inside me. It’s like the tide,
always falling and rising. I will carry you here in my heart. You remind
me that, come what may, I know the way.
-Moana, I Am Moana (Song of the Ancestors)
Moana sings, “I am a girl who loves my island, and the girl who loves
the sea. It calls me.” She can be both– the brave certain girl with a
voice who speaks inside her, who will cross the horizon and go farther,
and her father’s daughter, who loves the island she is responsible for.
Her Hufflepuff Primary may be “only” a model, but you can still choose
such things. You can decide the things you have built and learned and
found for yourself are as important to you as those that come easy and
natural to your hand. The things she is and the things she’s learned and
the things she loves save her there.
For her secondary (aka HOW she does things), Moana seems to be aHufflepuff Secondary–
the House of empathy and hard work and determination. It’s her ability
to care, work, and understand that carries her through.
her position as chief’s daughter comes unnaturally to her, she deals
with it by pouring herself into the work. She fixes leaking roofs and
tries her hardest.
First setting out on her
venture, she sails over unknown seas through night, storms, boredom, and
exhaustion with a stubborn grit. She practices her first words to Maui
over and over, and no matter how often she gets tossed into the ocean
she never gives up.
would have crashed herself against the barrier reef of Te Fiti until
she broke herself– this is both her Gryffindor Primary and her
Hufflepuff Secondary at work. Determination, belief, and perseverance
all bundled up into one young woman.
she finally wins Maui over to her side, it’s through understanding
him– she listens to his boasting, looks at his tattoos, and realizes:
he wants to be needed and he needs to be wanted. He is lonely, abandoned
by those who were supposed to love him, and he’s spent all his long
life trying to earn that love back.
In the finale, she looks at the lava spirit Te Ka and sees her for who she is. Just like she looked at Maui and felt for him, and used that to change him– she looks at Tefiti’s blackened husk and feels for her. Moana knows her, cares for her, loves her, and offers up the heart in her hands.
There are dishes in the dishwasher
There is glass on the floor
There is hair in the drain
There is frosting on the countertops
And I am not happy
I try to make sense
Of the sorrow I feel
The stress, the emptiness
There are answers somewhere
In a library on a shelf
In a distant place where
Nobody goes and
There are answers to sorrow
But no one knows
There are answers to turmoil
But no one knows
I try to find them sometimes
I try to make sense
But there is chaos in my head
I look at the records in my memory
All the events brought to the sadness
The sadness I feel
Even at this moment
Where tears fell ramped
When the cupcake I got my grandma
Fell over and hit the counter
And the frosting on top of it
Smeared along the countertop
Crying by myself
Wondering why the stress of something so small
Something so irrelevant and miniscule
Makes the stress of everything explode
And I can’t stop feeling so entirely
Stupid for no particular reason
So I remind myself that a response
This seemingly immature is not unusual for me
For the brain of someone like myself
Can only handle so much
And I remind myself that poetry
Can be whatever anyone wants it to be
Even an entry that has no rhythm
My psychologist once told me
About EMDR therapy
And how it could delete the trauma
From the depths
Of my memory
I would no longer feel it so strongly
I would be able to make peace with the past
I would not feel it every time
A wire snapped in my head
But when I settled into my thoughts
They took me to an other worldly place
Where everything was blank
Like a white sheet of paper where
No one could find a pen
And no one knew
Just what to write
I thought about how
Before knowing I had this illness
I thought I was certain of my identity
I knew myself
I knew who that person was
In the hospital
When I was sick of the monsters
I learned everything I knew about myself
Was just a mirror of my disorder
Throughout the year
My days became well-defined
That nothing about me
Was a piece of me
I could now make sense of
The emptiness and how
Easily it represented me
I could now make sense of
The people living inside me
The ones outsiders did not see
The ones insiders feared
I know all of these people
Perhaps far too well
There is a house in my head
That flows through my bones
And rests in my heart
They live in that house
They share a set of keys
They come, they go
They are houseguests
But hardly guests at all
One comes to cry beneath the sheets
One waits by the phone to comfort others
One paces throughout the day
One comes to abuse me in the nights
One uses the computer to write poetry
One comes only if she has money for a cab
She can never remember the way home
On her own
None of them pay rent
For awhile these faces
Were just a burden to me
Some days, some nights
They still often are
But you see,
I love each of them
They make up me
I live each moment of every day
Each second sometimes
Fading from person to person to person
Never knowing who will open the door
Never knowing who will take the keys
And sometimes it becomes so
Draining that I cannot bear this weight
And I fade into a childlike state where
I can do nothing but clench the blankets
And cry for someone to carry me into their arms
And tell me everything is going to be fine
It’s true when I say
I would like for the pain to stop
I would like for the flashbacks to come to an end
The flashbacks of the blood on the bathroom floor
The flashbacks of the blood in the bathtub
The scars buried in my skin
The pain of holding my breath beneath a pool of water
Waiting to faint
The painful wish for death
I would like that to disintegrate
Because in those moments
In the stress of so much as living
I am chaos
But without them, you see
I am no one but
There is no library
In the house in my head
There are no answers
There are no articles
There are no books
I cannot remember
My mother’s face without photographs
I cannot remember a moment
That she kissed me goodnight
I cannot remember
She is dead
All of these faces inside me
Show me I have not forgotten her
All of these faces tell me
She still lives in my bones
And in my heart
And I cannot forget
I cannot forget those things
That I still cannot remember
I love everyone
And I hate everyone
I love myself
I hate myself
I love myself
I hate myself
It does not stop
But I could not live another way
And that may be construed
As nothing but
My psychologist told me
I am not my disorder
My psychologist told me
I am someone else
Completely on my own
I trust my psychologist
But she is wrong
Because I am not
I think of the times that
I feel like I’m choking on oxygen itself
And I am so unbearably sad
I open up the door
Of the house in my head
And search for the bottle of pills
The knives in the drawers
The bathtub filled with water
Whatever rope in the garage
I think of the times
The times where I breakdown
Because of something so meaningless
As even the frosting
That smeared on the countertop
On my grandma’s birthday
I think of my grandpa in the hospital
Himself but not himself
And how much I care to help
The people in my circle
In times of distress
To help my grandma
To give her and others kindness
To make her feel something else but misery
While her husband lays
Confused in the hospital
On her birthday
I think of the times that I say and have said to God
“I am not living
So take me now
I cannot bear this heartache”
I think of the times, the sleepless nights
Laying with a stuffed rabbit
Clung so closely to my chest
Tears running to my cheeks
And into her polyester skin
And those times, they are hard
Those times are unbearable
Those times happen
But there is that other she
She who cries at the loneliness of the moon
And wails at the saddest children’s stories
She who cares far too much about the ways of the world
She who finds the kindness in the smallest of things
She who loves the world
She who defends the defenseless
She who sings show tunes
She who befriends all animals
She who loves mismatched clothes
She who finds mystery in morning dew
And she looks to the stars for answers
And feels strength so heavily in thunderstorms
There is that she
Who has dreams to the sky
And does everything bigger than anybody she’s ever known
She is a perfectionist
But she does each detail from her heart
And she is the she that
Loves absolutely everything
There is no life without both of those shes
For I would be without identity if I was not both
If I did not have the qualities and the stories of both
It might be wrong to be in love with the sadness
But the sadness was built in my nature
My psychologist once told me
The people who are victims of posttraumatic stress disorder
No longer qualify for being victims
After EMDR therapy
I am not borderline personality disorder
But I am
Would I qualify for
Being a person with this disorder
If I, too, pursued EMDR therapy?
Would I be a person
That could get by just fine
And no longer feel everything?
This world is a funny place
Bad things happen
Bad things get worse
Bad things kill our souls
But then something good
Changes the heart
Tossed into my brain
My mind running 1,000 miles per minute
My eyes seeing the beauty in the smallest things
My heart aching with the heaviest blues
Another could not grasp
These are the traits I know about myself
I know her the best
And I cannot leave her behind
It would be not a puddle
Not a pond
Not a lake
But a river descending into
Floating into the sea
Somewhere between nowhere
And the edge of the earth
Without a life preserver
Without means to survive
Floating without answers
That is who I’d be
Without these simple flaws I carry
Because some of them
Some of them don’t seem all bad
Some of the most tender moments
In memory derive from feeling everything
Sometimes loving someone so much
That it is fuel to my heart
Sometimes hating someone so much
That it gives me reason to keep writing
Sometimes missing someone so much
That it makes me understand the world
A little bit better
And a little bit younger
Than most youth could say
Sometimes finding happiness so strong
It is sunshine
Lighting every path
Towering every obstacle
Feeling on top of the moon
And so far from the stress of everyday
That sometimes I can hardly remember it
For when my tears fall sometimes
I now have a someone who holds me
Close to her chest
And tells me everything will be all right
I have a someone that lets my head rest
On her beating heart
And kisses my forehead goodnight
And makes me feel the safety
My heart craved
All of my life
And sometimes those sometime moments
Are the only moments that make all of
Life worth pursuing
I am not sad
And I am sad
I am chaos in a human body
But if I did not feel everything
These sometime moments would not mean as much
The people that live
In the house in my head
Would be evicted
Even the ones that seem to be
The quirkiest of the bunch
Even the ones that
Aren’t so bad at all
Good things will happen
But the bad things will linger
And everyone’s sad
But let me tell you
Though the lows pull me to the bottom
Of the darkest oceans
Without so much as a pound of hope
The highs still lift me
All the way to the galaxy
And everything is good
And there is no good like that
Unless you have felt the bad
And maybe feel it far too much
The bad that that locks you behind doors
And makes you forget
The very best things
I may be foolish
I may make little sense
But I cannot give away myself
And all of the things that have made me
I cannot sell the pain
I cannot sell the fear of being left behind
By every soul I’ll ever meet
I cannot sell the house built in my head
On land that wasn’t meant to be lived upon
On top of the plot of emptiness
So many years ago
I cannot send these things into the wind
I must learn the skills to manage these things
EMDR would not feel victorious to me
A war I’ve been fighting for
Almost sixteen years
Cannot be defeated by an eight step protocol
I will feel like I have cheated
My way to happiness
And I am scared to give away
Everything I have ever known
Despite how tragic a life I have lived
Eight steps to happy
Eight steps to happy
Eight steps to happy
There are eight steps to happy
But I’m intoxicated with the broken world
I’m intoxicated by the smallest things
That don’t make sense
The darkest souls often hold the
Greatest knowledge of the world
And the saddest
Can be the happiest
My psychologist has told me too many times
The trauma has stopped me from
And I am stuck in the spot where it all began
And this is true
But I have been coping
I have been healing
And I’m not always so angry
My mom was named Sue
She was air to me
One of her biggest fears before
Death took her by the hand
Was that her children
Would forget her
So I think of her every single day
And the trauma has its own room
In the house in my head
It created my perception on the universe
It created my personality
And I cannot let it walk out that door
Because if I do
If I do not feel it like an open wound
Like a searing pain
Like a knife being stabbed into my heart
Every time my eyes
Begin to distance from reality
Or shed tears so painful
That it feels like shedding the skin
Off of my very body
It will all become a deadened memory
Left behind in my past
I will have left her behind
The trauma is all I have left to remember her
And I could never let her down
She is dead
And I was just five years old
So very small
So very scared
I am almost twenty-one
But I am hardly twenty-one
I am very young
Or very old
And I feel everything
It does not make sense
But sometimes these things
That don’t make sense
Are the very best things
There is glass on the floor
There is hair in the drain
There is frosting on the countertops
There is stress in my head
And I feel like I’m losing my mind
I feel like there is so much darkness
I feel like there is weight so heavy on my shoulders
Not even a tree would be able to hold
Some would trade it
And there are moments where
I wish the world that I could
I love everything
I hate everything
“I’m just scared of falling back into my nightmares.” It comes out as a weak whisper.
But he was already fast asleep as i whimpered those words into his ears.
“put out these fires in my head babe. cause i’m wide awake. why am i awake?”
I feel a light shuffling next to me and tired yawn.
I try my best not to move an inch.
I don’t want him to know i haven’t been sleeping.
I just don’t want to bother him. He doesn’t need this.
He would care. A lot. Too much.
He’s probably going to feed and head to university right after.
I can hear him dressing up. The sound stops for a while.
He makes his way towards the bed and I stop breathing.
He kisses the top of my head before going out and closing the door.
I finally decide to release my breath. I fucking love him.
and i feel like i’m ruining the trust he has in me.
“The city sits below and we take, shots at the moon I wanna give it to you”
On my 19th birthday, i saw the sun rise over the ocean for the first time.
It wasn’t as movies or books told me it was like.
No, not at all…
It was on the first days of June and the cold wasn’t as bad as I thought it would be at six a.m. when I arrived to the beach. I took off my shoes and walked straight to the sea, or the sky; at that moment, when the colors melted so perfectly, no one could see the horizon line defined.
It started very subtle, as it was afraid to rise. Bit by bit, it covered the pearl morning haze with a pale, pure white light. The past few months seemed to disappear, and all the bitter moments of those bad times I’d just been through washed away with the soft lullaby the waves sang along as the daisy sun finally showed up in the porcelain sky.
Since that day I’ve been obsessed with sunrises. And every morning around 6a.m , after my sleepless nights I go up to the rooftop and sit on the edge. Today’s the same.
The black sky gradually turned into dim grey and the illumination of stars got languidly lusterless. Millions of stars in the ebony sky started hiding their brightness and got slowly dissipate, as if someone was going to coming. Divergent birds were gently flying in manifest sky and their dulcet dawn chorus was easily audible.
The first orange hued rays appeared on the skyline, which went through the clouds and the prodigious sky was easily visible. The sun came out of its abode across the brilliant orange horizon and glimmered in the sky. The sparkling sun started slowly rising up the scarlet skyline, which clearly differentiated the sky and the land.
Now the warm breeze can be felt and the plants made a beatific smile towards the sun.
“Tell me is it so bad cause it hurts like that when I think about it We’re both cynics now and it kills me but I’d die for you anyway”
Baz isn’t here tonight. He told me he had some business with Fiona. I haven’t seen her in a while. I don’t think she hates me as much as before. At least I hope so. We’ve hung out once or twice. Surprisingly.
Eleven o'clock morphs into twelve and then one. The time trickles by, marked only by those changing glowing numerals. My mind is blank; where there should be dreams is a heavy blackness. My eyes are as stationary as the silhouette of my bedside lamp, which is where they rest. When the sallow glow of the streetlamp behind it becomes white, I know my night is over. My mind flickers to the bedside table and the sleeping pills the doctor prescribed. I don’t want them, I don’t want chemicals.
I tried to go to the doctor. I mustered up all of my courage and went to a psychologue on my own. I wanted to fix all of this. All on my own without anyone’s help, without troubling anyone. I’d do anything to save Baz from the trouble of convincing me into going to therapy and to see the doctor about my insomnia. But I just can’t seem to do this.
I close my eyes and they almost sting, open too long I guess. After some moments I recall an old tale Penelope told me about and let it mull around my head. Perhaps this old story can pull my thoughts into the randomness that is a prelude to sleep and dreams.
“Sasha is in the snow, the bitter wind whips at her as she trudges to the lodge-”
It didn’t work.
“Are you so scared when it hurts right there’s no way around it In too deep now and we’ll never be the same.”
I tried to sleep today. I really did. And I even managed to end up sleeping for an hour or so. But the nightmares came back for me and they don’t leave either. Riddle me this. How can I call it a nightmare, if it doesn’t leave my presence when I awake?
Baz’s spot is empty beside me. My heavy wheezing is the only thing audible in the room. I cradle up to a corner of the room.
A salty fluid dripped over my small, cracked lips. My knees buckled as the marble tiles collided with my knees.
Crying is how I understand myself best. When I cry I know who I really am. I cry when others hurt as well as myself. I cry at the brutal world news and stupid soft movies. It’s my strength and my weakness. Strong because it brings understanding and weak because who wants the listener to weep when they are looking for a strong shoulder? I wish I could turn my tears off, I do. Or perhaps just save it until I’m alone, but I’m not wired like that. My emotions swirl like ocean currents, deep and strong. Sometimes I’m scared to dive in incase I don’t make it out again, but I can’t be anyone else, I don’t suppose any of us can.
I head towards the bathroom, to clean my face, before baz comes back. He can’t see me like this.
“Wearing my heart beneath those rolled up sleeves.
Where my eyes can’t see, tell me what my dreams could mean”
There were times I felt like the world was slowly disappearing in front of me. Or maybe it was just me who was fading away. Those moments it didn’t mattered anyway. Because my empty burning lungs and my heart hitting my chest so hard I thought it will break my ribs and rip apart my skin were the only thing I could think about.
And the void. The black hole in my head, deep inside my soul, slowly swallowing all my hopes and dreams. That was the worst of those moments. The realization of the vacuum, the nothingness, the absurd of my existence.
Those times kept me awake all night and made me wonder: why am I living for anyway?
Maybe for me. Maybe for him. For the others Did it really matter?
And when I couldn’t find my answers on the ceiling, the anxiety turned into panic.
Now red, tear-rimmed eyes stared back at me, with watery streaks falling down my freckled face. I smoothed my now chaotic hair and wiped the tears from my cheeks which were now blotchy and mottled. My whole face was now washed with a dull red, including the very end of my nose.
“When my love won’t sleep, love won’t sleep”
I’ve been out feeding for almost an hour or two now. My mind’s somewhere else tonight.
I think about Simon. He seems different. The blue in his eyes doesn’t look the same.
I’ve been busy with university these past days, as finals are coming in. I feel like I haven’t been here for him. Not enough. It’s October now. Almost a year after everything happened.
Penelope tells me he’s okay some days. And others, he isn’t.
I hurriedly get back to our flat, wanting Simon in my arms at this moment. I gently open our room’s door, expecting Simon to be sleeping. To my surprise he’s sat on the floor in a ball, with dozens of pills around him. My heart starts beating faster. I think my hands even start shaking.
Simon turns, but too slowly to be normal. When he speaks his voice trails slowly, like his words are unwilling to take flight. There is a sadness in his eyes and fright, the blue too glossy.
As soon as he sees me, all of the emotions he’s been holding crumble down. Two fresh tears start rolling down his rosy cheeks before he lets himself break down. My heart breaks at the same time.
When he cried there was a rawness to it, like the pain was still an open wound. He would clasp onto something for support, anything, a table or the back of a chair, and then his whole body would shake. The sobs were stifled at first as he attempted to hide his grief, then overcome by the wave of his emotions he would break down entirely, all his defences washed away in those salty tears. When he at last turned his face to me he was a picture of grief, loss, devastation. It was the face of one who had suffered before and didn’t know if he could do it again. Then, just when I thought the breakthrough would come and he would trust me with his vulnerability, the shutters would come down, his emotion walled off behind a mask of coping. He would just wear it until everything was right again, he didn’t know another way.
I rush to his side, take him in my arms. Soothe him. I wrap my arms around his waist, feeling him calm down instantly at my touch. I rub the tears away with my fingers and started rocking back and forth. Soon nothing but the night time noises filled the room.
In the darkness our cuddles are feel like a little touch of heaven, warm, together, cozy. I wish I could extend the night just so I could stay close to him for longer, safe in your embrace. His arms wrapped right around me bring a peace I’ve never known before, a calming of the storms in my heart. I think it’s him that gives me hope for the future. In his embrace I start to believe that there is nothing out there to fear, that all there is is sunshine, beautiful trees and kind people - friends to be. His cuddles are the only medicine I need, they are the light in the darkness, a lone star in an otherwise empty sky.
“I’m so sorry. I’m so sorry Baz. I didn’t want to bother you. I know you have a lot on your mind. I tried to do things on my own. But it was for your sake. I didn’t want you to find out this way. I wanted you to be proud of me. But all I do is fuck up. I’m so sorry. I’m such a shitty and untrustworthy boyfriend. I don’t deserve you do I. I’m sorry. I’m sorry.”
I looked up at him. The swirls of emotion I saw there made me gasp. Lust and desire. However, before I could ponder about it further, he yanked me to him and covered my mouth with his in a hungry kiss. As our lips crushed together, I felt like i was walking on air. It was magic, the way his lips connected with mine. His mouth was so warm, the caress of his lips softer than I could have imagined and I opened my mouth with a low moan.
Then I felt his hands shake behind my back. I broke the kiss and embraced him in a hug once again.
“Shh. Simon. Simon. Listen to me. I love you. I’m sorry too. I love you. That means I would defend you with my life even if the odds were insurmountable. It means I will comfort you in the difficult and painful times. It means I will dance and rejoice with you when times are good. It means I will never betray you, never give up on you. Tell me anything and everything. Trust me with everything. You will never be a bother to me. I’ll do anything for you. Understood? You’re the best thing that has ever happened to me. There is no perfect lover, we are all flawed, but knowing those flaws and still loving with all your heart creates perfect love. I will never look further than you, my love. If my heart is a flower waiting to bloom, your love is the only sunshine it needs. I’m sorry my love won’t sleep. We’ll fix all of this. You and me. Together.”
there we go! surprise surprise! i’m your secret valentine! i really hope you liked your gift! based off ‘my love won’t sleep by lostboycrow’ and also lots of inspiration from daisy, one of my favorite writers! but anyway this was really fun to write! happy valentine’s day <3
A #microfiction for anyone who ever feels like they’re sinking…
They called her Pearl, because you could always find her curled up at the bottom of the ocean.
When she was young, she had been a sleepy child and would often drift to the floor of the shallow oceans (that all the mer-pups stuck to) and curl up in a soft bed of kelp.
They had joked that these blankets were her shell. In her adolescence, the elders taught her (as they taught all with the talent for depths) how to forage the fruits of the sea and scavenge the wrecks of the over-water. And she began to experiment with making clothes out of those warm fronds of kelp, so she could carry her shell with her everywhere.
Whether she wore them or not, she always carried a little bit of the depths around in her head. You could see it in the inky depths of her eyes when she would look off into the distance and her friends would know she was not with them, but briefly somewhere far below. Somewhere swathed in comforting darkness.
But her friends in her scavenging pack had patience for these flights of fancy, when she would plan her next adventure in the deep-down. For when she returned, she would bring with her such wondrous stories and souvenirs and it was almost as if they had been there with her.
But there was another darkness that she carried with her. This darkness was a kind of predator that swam through her mind, its rows of teeth made up of all the fractures of her worries. For, as she had grown, she had found the tight pressures of life beneath the waves had crushed her somewhat more tightly than they seemed to for others.
She heard the laughter of the foragers above her with their angler fish smiles, and it dug into her ears in ways it did not for her friends. Her eyes were often wide as she twitched at the approach of social rivals, as her brain screamed “predator”. Her keen eyes, which she could not turn off, saw even her own soft spots and attacked them ruthlessly. “You’re just a silly little pearl with your trinkets and your stories,” it would say to her, “what good are you?”
Later, her friends would tell her that these sharp edges within her were the same things that made her excel in the deep-below - her wide vigilant eyes, her curious, caring and questioning nature. If only she could direct them outwards instead of inwards.
But befriending the predator that lives inside you is not so easily done. It is a process that is accomplished inch by careful, angry inch and sometimes results in being bitten.
And whenever she felt that creature begin to prowl the waters of her brain, she would sink like stone to the bottom of the deepest trenches. There the water would close around her like a shell (or perhaps a vice would be more accurate). It had taken her years of diving to build up that kind of resistance to the pressure and none could safely follow her.
So down there she would hide, alone and safe from either being bothered or feeling like a bother on any other creature.
Eventually, she sank so deep for so long, that she began to lose any feeling that she was connected to the bright worlds of the upper waters at all. She resolved to stay down there and make her home in the deepest dark of the ocean’s crevices.
Some of you will be pleased to know that there is a “but” coming.
You see, she *would* have stayed down in the deep-below for the rest of her life, *but* for two things…
…the first “but” is simply this: that some of the other mer-folk missed her.
They were not so well equipped as she to explore the deeps. They had not grown accustomed to the pressures. They had not built up their bodies to withstand the cold, as she had.
But they were determined. And they loved her. And those with light in their hearts and blind stubbornness in their heads have often been able to achieve the impossible.
So they practiced and they trained and they learned to cover for each others’ weaknesses. And gradually they dived ever deeper.
…the second “but” is that the heavy darkness that swaddled the trenches was not *empty*.
Over time, as Pearl became more accustomed to the different shades and textures of pitch that were the ocean’s bottom, she began to perceive the shifts and rolls of the water. Miniscule shifts in pressure and current that spoke of something *massive* snaking through the space around her.
And, because she was ever curious, eventually her questioning nature overcame her sadness, and she swam towards the movement.
What she felt there was massive and rough and smooth. It twisted as she touched it and pressed a giant sucker against her arm. It began to curl round her, but she was not afraid - something in the hind of her brain knew this for affection.
Then she heard the voice. It was everything and everywhere, shaking the ocean around her and rippling down her skin.
“I WAS WONDERING WHEN YOU’D SAY HELLO.”
“Uh, hello…” She mumbled.
“HELLO.” The tentacle squeezed her gently. “IT IS NICE TO FINALLY MEET YOU, PEARL.”
“You know me?” She said.
“ALL IN THE DEPTHS KNOW YOU.” A single giant eye opened and glowed in front of her and seemed to float there, connected to nothing. “AND TO KNOW THE DEPTHS IS TO KNOW ME.”
“What are you?”
“I AM THE DEEP-BELOW. I AM WHEN WATER BECOMES INK. I AM THE DARKNESS THAT LOVES YOU.”
Pearl did not know what to say. She had never before felt so seen. Or so safe.
“AND I AM NOT THE ONLY ONE. WE SHOULD GO RESCUE THE OTHERS.”
“Rescue?” Pearl felt the presence that held her begin to flex and rise upwards.
“THEY DO NOT KNOW ME LIKE YOU DO.” Something in the voice suggested a smile.
Up above, at the point where pitch darkness became simply “murky”, Pearl’s friends were floundering.
They had done very well considering, but a few weeks of practice could not match a lifetime. But they had still dived deeper together than any of them could alone.
As they all rose up, carried upon the Deep-Below’s huge tentacles, Pearl fussed over them and tended to their various injuries and needs.
“Pearl!” They all exclaimed, dizzy from the pressure. “We came to find you, but we found a monster! *And* you!”
“It’s not a monster.” Pearl smiled softly. “It is me.”
And Pearl stroked the nearest tentacle fondly.
“If you say so.” Her friends said, deliriously.
“I do.” She said. “I do.”
Pearl did not live happily ever after. At least, not exclusively. The beast that was happiness was something that she would spend most of her life trying to tame.
But she did live surrounded, both above and below, by love.
I have been dead inside for awhile now and the only days I feel alive is usually when I can’t decide when to love or to reforget. They say that great writers can make words out of snow and turn it into a paradise filled with treasure and gold. They say that great poets turn their depression and passion into art and that’s how we get the beating of broken hearts. What do I say? I know I’m not great, I’m far from it. I do have one good quality. I’m good at destroying. I’ve destroyed my brightest stars and in return they’ve given me an eternal black eye somewhere lost between tomorrow night and a day of when we lost track of time, we’ve been counting down how long it’ll take until our next conversation. I can make the bristles of a toothbrush clean away each secret I’ve been saving for our next kiss or I can make each stroke of a paintbrush forget the way we tried to hold each other because what’s perfect writing without a little fantasy, nothing that has happened, happens for nothing. Everything has a reason. We hurt each other to shine brighter, eager personalities that gravitate towards the brightest minds. Don’t mind me, I’m just trying to take up your time. We’ve lost our way and you can say we’ve lost meaning. We have lost depth and that’s why a seashell contains the apology of the ocean. I’m sorry seems like a paragraph when my tears begin every sentence I’ve been meaning to give to you. So I’ll start it out. I’m sorry that I hurt you and yeah, you say, I forgive you. I forgive you seems like a slap on the wrist when my mind starts bending my fingers backwards, you’ll write each I’m sorry, damn you. Now then, start again. I’m sorry that I hurt you because it is my curse to overthink when I’ve been forgiven more times than lips can mouth those very words… words we always want to hear especially if it’s sincere, and I am, I am sincere. It won’t fix a thing, you say, the past is in the past so don’t let that shit last, I say, the past is my future because how will I become a better person unless I confront my mistakes and fears every day and yeah, you can forgive me, but the real question is when will I forgive myself? I have been dead inside for quite some time and yes, we turn emotions into a sea meant to drown every ship and yes, we turn passion into a hand, you’ll choke me, but just enough for me to turn purple, but not enough for me to die and it’s such a silly thing, this thing between you and I. I can’t seem to get my head wrapped around my I’m sorry just as much as your lips say, you are forgiven, now forgive yourself. That’s the thing. I can’t. It’s just who I am. I’m not bright. I’m not brilliant. I’m not great. I’m just a simple soul trying to make paintings out of my fragments. I’m just a heartbeat fixated on the idea that if love was a poem, I want to be tender enough to be spoken into your ears. I’m just a human struggling with how to turn ghosts into wine, I’ll drink your memories into mine. I’m just a poem waiting to be written one last time, and if that day never arrives I think somewhere within our short connection, you felt in your heart like the same way I still do for you. So like the end of every page, I think writers should always leave a signature to remind the world that pain and love can all be fixed with a simple string of words that means something just between you and someone special–
Summary: ‘We’ll be Friends Forever, won’t we, Pooh?’ asked Piglet. ‘Even longer’, Pooh answered.”- Winnie the Pooh; Dan takes some time to reflect on Phil’’s birthday. (sequel to “Twenty-Four”)
Word Count: 5255
A/N: angel bean turns 29 today, so here’s a fic to celebrate! this was actually very, very difficult to write, but i’m proud of how this turned out. i hope you enjoy and as always, please send me feedback! i’d love to know what you think!
A lot of people have been asking me for lyrics, and I feel like rather than having people reblog lyrics from January that obviously went through numerous changes, I could just gather the final products in one post. So here you are, every single word spoken on TWFU, with a small description of each song. Thank you for caring.
A calm rushes over me as I picture my corpse ill-fated with the faults I can’t escape. A sigh of relief used to signify the blight that infects the last few fragments of my skull. Sometimes I swear I think that I’ll be fine. I’ve made up my mind. Death is my birthright. I am a noose waiting to be tied. Still I try to elude the truth and embrace my disguise because this way of life takes it’s toll on mine and I don’t want to be alive. Bury me breathing so I can watch myself decay. We are stillborns by definition but our pulse-infected wrists will disagree. We burden ourselves with intent and ambition when we’ve accepted that all hope is lost. So dance past my lips and disperse, leaving no trace of human condition. Our bodies blind the world with a sense of selflessness that only a trained eye can see. You blame me for your blindness. Open your eyes.
For the ones who live and breathe yet feel dead on the inside. I know your pain, this is for you.
Your words grow cold and incoherent and I’m searching for a fever that could lift me to the border of dementia. My eyes are tired from surveying everything we used to share and I would sew them shut if I had any strength inside. I remember every promise, I’ve carved them into my spine. I raise my hands to the sky and beg that this won’t go unnoticed. Though I know some fires are not meant to burn. We are bred to flicker and fade, not to retreat into the earth. Not to grow without remorse. We douse ourselves with the moisture that we’ve drawn from the soil. We breed and unleash. We’re our own natural disaster. String me along like the thread that binds your ribcage. Tie my limbs to the anchor, and be sure that I’m left alone to sink. I will shine brighter than the sun. I will forever be your torch. Cast me away and in time I will set fire to the fibres that connect us. My palms grow calloused from the cold. I need your touch to cauterize. Sustained by the flame of another, the embers begin to reignite. There’s a hole in the herd that will never be filled. The anguish will fall through your fingers as mankind manifests itself through misfortune. I am alone, and the world carries on. I am alone. The world carries on and we don’t deserve a second thought.
For those who abandoned me in my time of need. For the people closest to me that sat by and watched me suffer. For all those who turned a blind eye… this is for you.
I’m shaking and so are my hands and I can’t tell if it’s the cold or if I’m finally feeling regret. A martyr in my own mind and a pariah given the capacity of my own guilt. Do I fight the fact that I am a nervous wreck or do I face the forthcoming collision head on? I don’t know how to abandon my blind heart… and I’m convinced that you deserve this. My organs are dark and minuscule in comparison to yours. I’m no longer pining to cure my disease, I’m just dying to advance the process. Trim your wings and deceive me, cinch your halo around my neck because death houses such beauty if we can enjoy what will grow in it’s absence. We are thin and wasted at both ends and we’ve accepted our position. I was never worthy of following your footsteps. So be sure to leave no evidence that you’ve existed. We dare not turn and face the figures treating us to our descent. If we knew their origin then we’d surely be disgusted. This is the kind of illness that leaves us rotting from the inside out… and we wear this on our sleeves. Content with our casualty. I would do this all over again. I’m the catalyst of our collapse, haunted by conviction and a partner to the pain. Forgive me for who I’ve become these past few years. Forgive me for allowing my love to disappear. Trim your wings and deceive me, cinch your halo around my neck, and just leave me alone with my thoughts. Eaten alive until there’s nothing left to mourn. I will resonate through the minds of others as a corpse and nothing more.
For the ones I’ve loved that took me for granted. For the ones who make me terrified to ever love again, this is for you.
Your ghost holds me close as I’m ravaged by the solitary that surrounds my former home. Use me until you’ve spent the rest of my remains and then try to validate your actions. Cursing every empty vein that used to be inhabited by your impression. Paralyze me to ensure I have no chance of knowing the feeling of affection. It’s no secret that I’ve shed the common decency that appoints the world with the burden of devotion to our kin. I gave you everything I had and the world has left me exhausted. So make me feel something, anything that might change my mind. As worthless as I am, I know that I still serve a purpose. To leech off the light and absolve my insignificance. Lay me to rest inside of a glass casket so you can remember me with a smile on my face. Adorning me in my own failures so you can count them as you stand above my bones. I wish I were a better man. I am a coward masked in courage and just admitting this will not save me this time. So free me from my tired mind and let me learn the difference between a single tear and the runoff of an ocean. Weak and weary from my predatory nature. So bless me with abandonment in my greatest time of need. Let me carry on knowing that I could never truly face my reflection. It’s much easier to caress the broken glass. Though if I accidentally catch a glimpse of myself in the shards, I will put my faith in the shrapnel to correct my vision. I am a stranger when I stare into the eyes of those I love. Look away in disgust, protect yourself from the sight of my deception.
For the ones that will forever hold me in their heart. For the ones who I will always let down due to brain activity that I will never fully understand, this one is for you.
I’ve grown accustom to losing sleep. Sweep me off my feet, dig your nails into my wounds and pull. A lucid dream, where my chest will collapse from the weight of a fictitious ghost. Tear through me, sacrifice me to your sea. With broken arms I’m left to carry my shell with no help from the current. Lifeless, I am dragging me down. Hollow, I’m left to fend for myself. Forget everything that you’ve come to know. We are not meant for much but to carry our own misery. Is there a God cursing every step that I take? Or have I been forced to commit myself to the dirt? We’re chasing the light in the darkest of graves, but the fortunate ones know to wait until mourning. Be still. Serenity blesses us in waves and with eyes like mountains, we’re drawn to the brow. Leave this life behind and take the next step in the right direction. Stare at the sky, and offer yourself to circumstance. Be the burn. Burn me alive.
For all those living in fear of the inevitable. For those who dwell in the shadows to escape the sun or vice versa, this is for you.
With no destination in mind, I’m free to roam until my last words are heard by all. Confide in your fragile frame, and know that you’re not alone. Allow these words to reverberate within you. I am only a medium, but I will show you the way. Tragedy will find us.
Take comfort in the cadence of the bond we share. A visionary born and raised to see with an unbiased sense of sight. We pause just for a second to properly embrace the radiance. We are the anointed dipped in filth, taught to cower in fear of being identified… but tragedy will find us. I’m held captive by my spoiled soul. I won’t allow it to affect my stride. The procession will proceed as we’re gifted with our own idea of peace. So find yourself in me. I promise I will keep you as we harvest the passion that remains. Make my skin your sanctuary. I make a pact with the earth to draw life from the living. Make my skin your sanctuary. Leap to the beat of my blood. So place your hand in mine, drag your feet across the tops of trees. Breathe easy knowing that the branches will support you and the weight of your complication. In the midst of the ruin that surrounds us, we communicate but only in tongues. Our lips will welcome the caress of the crucifixion, and we stain the wood with defeat. I am not a mortal, I am a metaphor for moving forward.
For those who find comfort in the words I’ve written. For the who see themselves in me. For those who know my pain, this is for you.
I bask in familiar flesh with no shelter to call my own. A sacrifice for my sickness, I’ll dig a grave for those I love. I release the teeth from my jaw, knowing that I will miss the pain when you take shelter in the mouth of another. You live in the back of my throat, spawning sentences in unison with mine. Stay safe in my breath, you will never be lost. If our attraction is only skin deep, how deep is deep enough? I’ve made a habit out of grinding my bones into a sharper point when I hear your name… and I’ve named each cut you’ve cursed me with. Though I wish I had the courage to ask for more. Your spirit suffocates me. You won’t find asylum inside. I never asked for your blood in my veins. So haunt me not and disappear. I am a victim, despite what you’ve heard. Forced to dwell inside of endless withdrawal. We can never coexist, so I will offer up my heart. Don’t look back and try to find me, I was always doomed to watch you from the dark. Stay safe in my breath, you will never be lost. If our attraction is only skin deep, how deep is deep enough?
For the ones who’s deepest cuts comes from those they love. For the ones who are scared to break free, this is for you.
Congregate what little ounce of decency is left and gather enough courage to invoke contractions in your vocal chords. Admission of guilt through confrontation. I’ve had to chisel every lie out of your mouth and after all this time I’ve grown immune to your embrace. Spare me and my virgin ears from a stale conception. Admit that I’m the victim and cradle consequence. Line your insides with a sense of wrongly obtained righteousness. Spread your poison as thin as you possibly can to ensure you violate every inch of common ground. Call me a cancer, keep convinced that you’re not sick yourself. You will be exposed as soon as the worlds eyes can fully adjust to the dark. I was the cure to your corrosion, but now I want to watch your skin rust and slowly grow discoloured… and when your throat buckles under the weight of the accumulation of perjury, I want to watch the life seep out of your tear duct as your death rattle hits my eardrum and thaws what’s left of my cold heart. I hope you choke to death. The compass has been cracked… I hope you fucking choke to death.
For the two human beings responsible for the greatest example of betrayal that I have ever felt. For the two people who hurled me towards rock bottom with no remorse. For the compass that left me lost. May you never fully experience happiness. For the two I will commit to erasing from my memory by any means necessary. This is for no one else on this earth, this is for YOU.
Back-pedalling into the black, but I can still make out the figures that will threaten my well being. The wind will rise and fall, but never sway from side to side. Progression halted, encapsulating the fluid weave of death like a garden that contains all of it’s arrested offspring. We’re afraid to force our legs to break free from the earth and take the first step towards our insecurity. Sleep away your selfishness. Slip into collapse, a still-like state of disregard from which you can’t fall back. You never fully moved me, I’ve been embedded in the dust and my mind has been ravaged by war. Pray for farewell as if I was yours to lose. I would love to love you, if you were someone else. So forgive me for being unresponsive. I’m sure it’s hard to train your ears to hear me crying out for help with my lips sewn shut by stitches of my own indecision. So I’ll speak in whispers to permit my throat relief. I bite my tongue, fill my mouth with blood, and swallow enough to kill me before I’m forced to lose more sleep. I would love to love you, if you were someone else. Am I fit to walk alone again, or will you save me from myself? Breathe life into me, be all that I can see or carry on without me and just know I wished you well.
For the ones who can easily identify peace and tranquility in the midst of tragedy, this is for you.
Immerse yourself in the water that flows freely from my hands. You’ll find no substance, just the rain that we use to simply bathe and disregard. I bless my arteries with blades, and I welcome the sight of the back of my eyelids. In our most peaceful and remote state, we’re allowed to choose what we want to feel. Mortality is the greatest gift given to the living, but a curse to those who feel that they’re truly alive. Sentenced to trespass, I should spin towards the north… but your gravity has left me alone and I’m left to roam as an apparition. Abandoned, I am a phantom limb in search of a frame to spread my plague. If the light leaves you blind, just shut your eyes and embrace the undertow. Let the waves puncture your lungs. In my dreams we drown together. Everything goes black but I can see you just fine. Condolences flourish and fall upon my feet and help pollinate the dirt that sits in the pit of your stomach. I need to shed the idea of a lasting impression. Make peace with my spirit breach. Everything goes black and I still see you in my dreams. Lower your head to sleep and let me do the same. I’m confident that we will meet again, every time you wade in a body of water. I am the light that leaves you blind, but I watched you retreat and cover your eyes. In your rivers I reside. In dreams we drown together. Everything goes black but you will see me just fine.
For the people dancing between the edge and the ground below. For anyone who has ever contemplated ending it all, this is for you.
We shiver in the pause between words. Abandonment still fresh upon the tips of our tongues. The whispers we’ve chosen to live and die in will infect deaf ears with the discordance of deceit. Why do we scream when there is nothing left to say? Silently acknowledging the solace in loss. I am content with throwing everything away because I lost myself when I found you. Carry me back to your bed, my conscience is my coffin and I swear sometimes I’d rather be dead. Make sure that I still feel, I don’t care how much it hurts. I’ll always be numb on my side of the earth. In the dark I watched the light hit your skin, hoping that my eyes might never adjust. Soft sounds save me from the confines of sleep because hearing your voice once was never enough. I think I’ve finally identified the Difference. I think I live in both my hell and my home. I will forever be a slave to your distance, don’t let me in, don’t let me go. Carry me back to your bed, my conscience is my coffin and I swear sometimes I’d rather be dead. Make sure that I still feel, I don’t care how much it hurts. I’ll always be numb on my side of the earth. Don’t let me in, don’t let me go. (In this moment) I’d rather die than live without you. I’d rather die.
For the one who allowed me to see the light. For the person responsible for helping me break free. This is for you, and no one else and I am eternally grateful. I love you.