new inks

When we were together, the first thing we would
do in the morning is tell each other about our
dreams. You were stuck in a maze and she didn’t
have my face but you woke up calling my name.
I know, you were just a lost boy, pawing around
in the dark, learning our story in braille. But I
know that I deserve more than a box of darkness,
no matter how you try to gift wrap it. I deserve to
be loved in the light. With the windows thrown
open. On silk sheets. With rose petals in our
mouths. You turned my heart into an acrobat
and then left with the net. I know, I’m just the
circus trick. The ghost town that neither of us
will escape alive. I am the song you keep on
repeat. You learned young how to keep your 
heart closed off, and you didn’t know what to
do when I learned how to fit my hands through
the barbed wire. In case you ever still wonder,
last night I had a dream that I jinxed myself
and now it’s raining on my parade. The thunder
crashes. The power goes out. I still call your name
in the dark.
—  DREAMLAND, angelea l.
She’s that
mysterious yet authentic
black
of a new moon’s night.
Dark.
Intense.
Elegant.
Flawless.
meant to be

If it’s meant to be it will be,
no matter how much time passes,
no matter how much pain exists,
if it’s meant to be it will be,
and if it isn’t, then something
else is.

topaz sea

this is 1am worship to the wrong guy, drinking in words that sting on their way down and drying your tears with pages of someone else’s Holy book. he drops you on nail beds when you ask him to stay.

and here are promises that you’re full of anything at all, that you’re not empty or at least missing part of your mind. the lies taste so much better when you’re happy, they do, but they’re sandpaper when it’s late. you’ve scratched your throat raw lately.

but maybe there’s something out there. maybe there’s grace or hope or someone to hold during hurricanes. (or maybe there’s love, if you look. maybe.)

—  redemption story, part i (catherine w // sempiternalwriting)

xxvi.

you told me you’re having
recurrent dreams, which you’d
like to share with me,
but you’re not able to
put them into words.

sitting on the edge of your messy bed, i saw you
truning restlessly,
talking quietly
the words i didn’t even know
that exist, but understood
their meaning prefectly.
on your pale skin was
a distorted reflection
of the night and
crystalline smell
of anticipation burdened
your unevenly rising chest.

i put my cool hand
on your forehead and
your racing heartbeat
slowly calmed down.

it was just your premonition,
but i knew it without doubt;
you were fatally poisoned
and knew, there is no
antidote yet invented
for your intoxication
with love.

you were scared, completely
aware that “infinity” is a word
which doesn’t even start;
we could never live in that
eight letters as they are
nothing more than that.

the separation will be inevitable one day.

Incoherent whispers
are starting up again
tickling and itching at
the back of my brain,
gliding between synapses -
hiding in the little veins;
murmurs of indecipherable
babble, how very deranged.
—  I’m kinda glad I can’t make out what they’re saying // © @rarasworldbro
youtube

She was there, by his side, when he mourned the breaking up of another short-lived relationship. He watched sad music videos, compounding his already seemingly incalculable misery. He discovered “Alone Again Naturally” by Gilbert O'Sullivan, and he bawled, wailing, “This song sums up my life!“ 

“You’re not completely alone…I’m here, aren’t I?”

He glanced at her briefly, dispassionately, before gluing his glistening eyes back to the screen. “Are you? Are we even real. Nothing feels real anymore.”

She moved closer to him, wrapping her arms around him and resting her head on his shoulder. As he looked down in faint surprise, she softly asked, “Does this feel real?”

He kissed her greedily. She spent the rest of the night doing everything she thought would make him feel better, to help him forget his broken heart and move on.

The next morning, she woke up and instantly sensed it–she was alone. He had gone without a goodbye, without seeing her first-thing-awake face, how it would’ve glowed at him if he’d only stuck around. Instead her face was fallen, as she fought back tears…but failing miserably. She had given too much of herself trying to console a hurting heart, only for him to turn around and leave her alone again…naturally. 

rainy park

i was consumed
by the reckless
abandonment
of the moment
my toes soaked
to the thin bone
my eyes sealed shut
painfully so
my hair whipping
my cheek bones
itching my brain
and reaching for the stars.
you made jokes
and sang along
taking my air-burned lungs
and folding their sides over
so they would fit in your pocket
for warmth.

‘Darling’: band-aids on cuts that still seep blood, a rose laced with thorns. How many times have I sworn on my blood that I wouldn’t answer his call – how many times have I planted my feet deep in the ground only to have him uproot me again?

'Darling’: slumped shoulders, indignation in my throat like jagged metal. I could fight him, but what’s the point? An army can’t stand if it wants to fall. I’m going back to him like a dog to its vomit.

'Darling’: the sun is going down again, leaving only the mad dusk light, where anything is possible. If I think hard enough, he might even love me.

'Darling’: the tide is coming in again, forcing the salt of his kiss into the cracks of my heart. Sooner or later the tide will go out.

'Darling’: I will drown alone in the dark.

'Darling’: Oh, every time he calls me that it hurts. Nothing but a whisper, but a whisper can shake continents.

'Darling.’

—  darling // abby, day 190 // prompt for @dangerouslyhopelessromantic
If they want to leave, believe them. Don’t chase the departed. Allow their ashes to be blown softly by the zephyr. Don’t hopelessly wait for a new flame, let it come in due season — and know that when it does, it will burn with the fire of a thousand suns.
—  The Truth About Fire
Address

If you are looking for me,
you won’t find me in stability.
You can’t find me on the corner of balance and consistency.
I live somewhere in between passion and dreams.
A destination, a get away.
People visit, but do not stay.
I live in a valley of intimacy.
No one can depend on me.
A bubble, a glass house.
You can see me but can’t hear me.
My home is surrounded by a wall of fire,
Others have tried to get close
and burned quickly.

I am not the good girl, honey skin and soft eyes, delicate words falling into fragile hands
My birdlike bones are not the remains of an angel, they have weathered too many falls
You will not call me darling, I won’t stay with you until morning

I am not the bad girl, gunpowder words dipped in sugar, bruises painted like stockings upon my thighs
Those wings may be torn, scar tissue replacing tender skin, still I,
I have let too many fingers upon my skin, being holy does not mean I have not sinned

No, I am neither sinner nor saint, my fingers have not brushed against stars, divinity was never something to be lost
I am real though, solid flesh and eyes dragged down by all the words I have thought but never said
Reality doesn’t mean I don’t have wings, it just means that they are broken faster than they can heal.

—  girl who escaped heaven