cornering

One day, one rhyme- Day 1178

The grass was warm under our feet
The day I last saw you.
The sun was high, the clouds were neat,
And fortunes smile we knew.
We talked of the places we’d been,
And where we’d yet to go
We painted our bright future scene
With optimistic glow.
We said farewell, with waving hands
Parted across sea foam.
We blazed our trails to distant lands
And forgot our way home
But I still think of you sometimes,
And wonder how you are
And if you’re still in sunny climes,
Looking down from a star.

He touched the scars on her wrist. A mixture of short and long slashes that seemed to have been there for so long.

He sighed and asked incredulously. “Why did you do this?”

She smiled at him, but there’s a hint of sadness in her eyes. Unconsciously she rubs her wrist.

“You know…when you’re too caught up with words but it’s the only thing that’s keeping you sane, you write. You write even if you can’t write no more” she said.

“But why write on your wrist? I don’t get you.” He asked again.

“It’s easier to carve everything in the skin, because if I write it on a piece of paper eventually it’ll get lost, or be taken away from me just like everything I’ve ever known that has now slipped into oblivion. So I write it here because even if it hurts, even if it will leave me scarred forever at least it’s real, it’s permanent unlike my happiness.”

—  When a writer runs out of paper
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Electronic music: Stealing Sheep’s Apparition (Pye Corner Audio remix)

Tonight you feel like the bottled pills burning in my veins.
I swallowed each one with a thought of you
One: Are you thinking of me now?
Two: I hate you so much it hurts.
Three: I love you so much it hurts.
Four: I’ll never forget that week.
Five: I can’t get your eyes out of my head.
Six: The day I fell for you was a cold late autumn. 
you called me to say hello and to tell me that it
would be okay for me to hate you.
Seven: I should have listened.
Eight: Today you said if we end up together my side
of things would always be a mess and all I could
think was you thinking we may end up together.
Nine: I am shallow and I feel waves break in my leisure.
Comb my body for the skeletons I have hidden.
Somberly remember how much I lived when I was alive.
Ten: I lived it all for you.
—  s.r., ten secret pills

In honor of falling apart less,
and stitching myself up more.
In honor of the way you made me burn.
I present this poem,
a nuanced art of pretending everything is alright.


I washed my sins off in the shower last night,
I let the hot water scald your touch off my skin.
That was for you.


For myself,
I  drowned  in holy water,
as cold as the river stream,
baptized away unclean emotions.
I wish I was free, free, free.


My hair drips angel wings down my back.
My hair drips and I dissipate into porcelain,
my reflection melting and distorting in this steamed mirror,
I let myself whirl down the drain.
My hair drips, and with it my blood runs hot and cold.
My hair drips, and I let it drown me.


I turn off the lights,
and let my body lay,
feel how it feels,
how it moves,
how bones grind and muscles glide.
I let myself feel how I am inside.


It’s mechanical though,
because the emotion is too fluid to grasp,
and it slips through my fingers.
Like panning for gold, in a hot valley,
sun pounding down on your neck,
hours of searching, searching, searching.
You finally strike gold.
but river current strings of fate pull it away.
Your sweat rolls down your neck, and drips,
it wraps around you like a noose.


I fall back into bed,
let its arms enfold around me,
and wrap myself against it’s chest.


I wish I was divine,
I wish I sipped ambrosia, and nectar,
had casual conversations with the gods.
I wish I was so heavenly I brought him down on his knees.


I wish I was so heavenly I brought you down on your knees.


Instead, I dry myself off,
pretending the water on my face isn’t tears,
salt eroding my skin.


I take a deep breath, and
on my skin I draw a beautiful girl.


Who doesn’t know what heartbreak is,
who doesn’t hate herself when she wakes up everyday,
who doesn’t shake when she thinks of all that she fucked up.
Who doesn’t cry alone at night,
when the only one who can hear her is mother moon,
who is so far,
her glow doesn’t alight on mortals with broken eyes.
Who still somehow thinks they are holy,
Who still somehow thinks they are angel.


I draw a girl who doesn’t pretend she is okay.


I dress myself up,
I smile in the mirror and say
I am okay, I am free, and I can do whatever I want to,
I am free and I can do whatever I want to.
I am free… but I am not.
But I wish it was true.


My hair still drips down my skin,
It hasn’t dried after all this time.
I hide my wings under my shirt,
I hide my wings and it all hurts.


At the end of the the day
No matter how much I wish or pretend,
I dress myself down, and take it all off.


I am just a  mortal girl,
whose wings are just empty bones,
dark branches, ink bleeding into white snow.


I am just a girl.
I laugh in empty spaces,
I smile through the tears,
I love the way you make me burn.


I am just a girl but,
I cauterize my wounds,
I bless myself,
I heal under the moon.


I am just a girl
but I am holy and
I stitch myself up with shaking hands,
I burn to keep you near.


I am just a girl but
oh don’t you wish that you knew that I was so much more?

—  I loved you so I could hate myself a little less, it didn’t work, but that’s okay.
Y sé que cuando estás por una persona, te lanzas a la piscina del todo. De plancha, aunque no haya agua y sepas que te vas a estampar. Si estás de verdad por una persona, lo arriesgarías todo por ella. Al menos yo pienso así.
—  Ellen Rose