poetry-and-prose

Darling,
just because
you’re used to
being sad,
that doesn’t mean
that you’re never
going to search for things
that’ll make you
truly happy.
—  ma.c.a // You Deserve To Be Happy
i hate this
i hate what we are now
i hate that we lost what we once were
i hate that everything is so different now
i hate that it feels like nothing will ever be the same again
i hate that you were once my everything
and now it feels like i’m nothing to you
i hate that i have to beg you for a conversation
not even a conversation
i hate hat i have to beg you just to text me back
a one word reply is all i need
because at least you’ll be talking to me
i hate that i’m begging you for the bare minimum
the same way i hate that i had to beg you not to leave me
i hate that you left anyway
i hate that you won’t text back anyway
i hate that i keep trying
i hate that i can’t stop myself from trying
from hoping
from deluding myself into believing that everything will be okay
that i’ll be okay
i hate that i can’t move on the way you did
i hate that i can’t mask my emotions the way you do
i hate that i can’t get over it the way you did
i hate that everything reminds me of you
i hate that you exist everywhere
in my morning cup of coffee
in my sock drawer
in my home
in my phone
in my laptop
in my memories, both literal and digital
wherever i turn there you are, and i hate that
i hate that i can’t sleep because i dream about you
i hate that you only love me in my dreams
i hate that you keep pushing me away
even though you said you still wanted to be friends
i hate that what you want and what you need eclipses my own wants and needs
and i hate that i’m just letting you treat me this way
i hate that i’m letting you make me feel so horrible
and sick
and sad
i hate that i can’t stop missing you
i hate that i can’t stop thinking about you
i hate that i can’t stop staring at my phone, just hoping you’ll talk to me
i hate that i keep wasting my 11:11 wishes on you
i hate that i can’t stop
i hate myself for still loving you
—  i think the only thing i don’t hate is you
(cc, 2017)
You taught me how to love someone but you never told me how to stop.
—  abandoned lessons // excerpt from a book I’ll never write ( offdxys )
I want to pretend it was never good and we were just young and I was blind. But the truth is I’ve never seen another pair of eyes like yours and my mom still loves you.
She couldn’t understand why she always became so attached to the people who didn’t put her first — the ones who were so busy with their lives that it seemed they forgot about hers.
She wondered if it would always be this way — if she’d always be sitting in her room at night, questioning if she’d always come in last, if she’d always be just sitting there, thinking of the people who never thought of her.
It hurt, over and over, every time someone let her down again, but it’s just who she was; she would always wonder what everyone thought of her, and how much they cared, while never really remembering to care about herself.
You were this beautiful, kind, thoughtful, incredible person, and I’m…me. I stutter and mumble and trip over nothing and laugh too loud at the wrong jokes and cry too much and maybe that’s why. Maybe that’s why, whatever you saw in me, you forgot.
—  Journal Entry; Fall 2013

The thought of you in my mind resonates with the taste of vodka on my tongue.

Bitter yet addicting.

—  alcoholic memories // excerpt from a book I’ll never write ( offdxys )
I spend a lot of time searching for who I am. I peel back the skin, look for hints in the muscles and clues in the tendons to tell me what I am made of. Atomic particles of identity, specks of personality, and shadows of wants dance like fireflies in the night, beckoning me to catch them, to cage them, to put them in a tangible place, a body to call home. I don’t know enough of settling or stability to tell you who I am. I can’t recall the last sunset that made me feel like I was part of a bigger world or the first time I got excited over a job or what color I would be if I wasn’t a person. I’ve lived an undefinable life. No labels, no limits, no lines. But I think that’s okay. I am still finding out what it means to be human, and I think that’s just as good as knowing who, if anyone, is waiting for me at the end of the day.
—  An Odyssey to Someone
don’t tell me
that i can’t love someone else
until i love myself
don’t try and convince me
that it’s logical
because i call bullshit on your logic
i may not know how to love myself
but i sure as hell know how to love others
because i know what it’s like
to feel as though no one cares
to feel alone
to feel broken
to feel unloved
and i would never wish that on anyone
ever
—  in the absence of self love i am able to love others
(cc, 2017)
A Perfect World

If I could change perfect,
perfect would be a mess
I’d cancel Monday’s, add a fun day
and declare an extra day of rest.

No more oatmeal, diets,
and shoes you lace up.

No commercials
No traffic jams,
all drinks would come
in 64 ounce cups.

Chocolate would be a vegetable and
skinny jeans…a myth.

Colors, shapes, and sizes
would all be mismatched.

And finding love would be easy
in my changed little world
just look for someone different
opposites attract, so I’ve heard









i. a soft light from within: hiding in his smile, running in the rivers of his eyes. his hair is dark like sleep, like endless quiet; his fingers are careful and his kiss tastes like the hush of a church on a holy morning. i swear his bones glow with the weight of his silent spring-morning glory.

ii. his scabbed knees and his broken bones only spill the light out where i can see it. each bruise is a sunrise; each cut is a candlelight; each tear is a sparkling pearl on the end of his nose, fragile like divinity. in agony he breathes his blooms into my lungs, where they root and flower. now i am flourishing and now he is barren and the sun always goes down, the light always ebbs away like the tide, nothing you keep in the palms of your hands will stay golden.

iii. his blood is beautiful like nostalgia, like ambrosia, shining from within like the darkest, purest honey you could find. his blood is beautiful, so i make him bleed.

—  beauty // abby, day 191 // prompt for @dreamers-inc