I don’t say I miss you because I expect a response.

I say it whenever I see something that reminds me of the shape of your eyes or hear something that causes your laugh to ring in my ears. I say it because when I see or hear these things, the words begin to form in my mouth faster than I can imagine them.

I say it because I mean it. And I’ll mean it regardless of how you react.

—  (c.m.) // I miss you, even when I know I’m the last thing on your mind.
We are haunted by memories of people who hurt us. Who knew their ghosts would do more harm than they ever did? I still feel a pang in my chest whenever I walk into a room that used to be occupied by you and the only method of relief is to feel your touch again. Your physical being is my remedy so please replace these phantoms by coming back home to me.
—  It is a curse to remember

i wanted to dream about you like you were the whitehot angel rising out of the oil painting to kiss my sunday-red wounds clean. i wanted you to call me one morning & say, hey, do you remember when we used to sit beneath willow trees and talk about how golden our futures would be? or crash on our parents’ beds eating chocolate & laughing about women in films who were prettier than us? while i smiled at the sunbeams & stirred sugar into my tea.

i think what i most wanted was for you to tell me quietly that you’ve loved me all along, not just in the way schoolgirl friends cared for each other, but in the way that some people still feel connected in spite of years of silence & miles of interstate between.

i think what i most wanted you to tell me was that your soul still hungered for my soul even after all this time.

—  though we both know this will never happen by Mica K

What the fuck

No one has kissed me like you did

I can still feel your lips on me

Your lips on my lips

Your lips on my neck

Your lips between my thighs

Your lips are the only thing I desire even in my darkest moments

I’m hanging on by a thread, I’m holding on to the hope that I’ll be with you again

Deep down I know you’re the love of my fucking life and that terrifies me

What if you don’t want me the way I want you?

Deep down I know I belong by your side

My soul belongs next to yours

I felt it when you wrapped your arms around me

I felt you realizing that you didn’t want to let me go

I hope you never let me go.

You turn my skin pink, flushed from the heat we created, as if you’ve covered my chest in flower petals because its natural, and the colors I turn when you make my body pull you in, are as well.
—  The Notes In His Jar #12 (via Jaime Ciarletto)
Runaway

Tired of these people
Tired of this town
Tired of the fake smiles
And the cries when no is around.
Emotions are raw and we shouldn’t conceal
Why is it a crime to feel how we feel?
I’ll let you know what the problem is
And you’ll turn around and tell her or him
The gossip flies like wildfire
And this chain only increases my burning desire
To get out of this place and away from you,
To start over somewhere completely new.

Why is it that the moment July begins to creep across our calendars, I’m already yearning for the bite of autumn wind? I’m longing for the crunch of rusty orange leaves underneath my boots. I wish for misty mornings imbued with the scents of apples and pine trees that scrape the cloudy sky. Why can’t I just appreciate this warm and sunny moment?
—  A.O.A.M

I warned you about the dark place I call my mind. I told you how messed up it was, but you didn’t stop asking. You threw questions all over the place and waited for my answers. Even when I swore I’d never let you in, you pushed harder and harder. There was something about you that begged for my thoughts.
I loved it, I enjoyed watching you put so much effort into trying to figure me out. I loved the way you were so curious about what’s running around my head. You were dazzled by my mystery. You proved it everytime our eyes met. So I found myself opening up, I grabbed your hand and took you on a special tour around my brain. I showed you my memories, my fears, and my anxiety. I introduced you to my sins, my demons and most importantly, to my emotions.

You were the first person who was truly interested in reading my mind, not my body. You were the first to ever fall in love with my perception, not my looks.
You were the one who made me believe that love is not about welcoming the outside beauty, it’s about accepting the inside wicked.

“unexpected deaths” by haley searcy

a few months ago in science class we split into groups to test the soil around our school. we scooped the dirt into glass jars, then filled them with water so we could get a better reading. when we got back inside someone noticed there was a long, thin finger floating amongst the clumps of silt. upon closer examination we realized it was a worm that had drowned when we collected our sample. nobody seemed to care that we had taken the life of this innocent creature when we sealed it in it’s coffin of carelessness and negligence. they told me it was silly that my lungs collapsed every time the image appeared in my mind. they said caring for something so worthless was a waste of time, but every life to me is worthy of  mourning.

a few years before i was born my cousin was riding her bike on the side of the road. she was twenty years old and spending some time at home before school started up again in the fall. the air was fresh, the plants were green, and the sun was shining so bright that the driver of the car didn’t see her when it hit. he felt the car shudder and turned to see a long, thin figure lying in the road. upon close examination he realized it was a girl who had been out for a ride to enjoy the beautiful day. everybody cared when she was sealed in her coffin of bike scraps and road cement, lines of yellow paint marking that it was not a passing zone, yet somehow that’s exactly what it turned into when she passed away. whenever i ride my bike, even if it is just in an empty parking lot, i think back to that story. of how there was this whole life that had existed before me, and that it was over in just a few seconds.

five years after i was born i was sitting outside of my parent’s room. i would’ve gone inside, but the door was locked. my mother didn’t want me to see her in the state she was in: bedridden, face lined with wrinkles that had cancer’s fingerprints all over it. she was so weak, but i was five, how could i have understood that my mother was about to die?  with pen to paper, i drew her a picture of the two of us hugging that said “haley loves you” and slid it under the crack of the door. a notebook was kept at her bedside table so she could continue making art in her final days, so she could focus her mind on something other than the inevitable ending of life. thirty minutes later a simple sketch returned under the door. it was my drawing, but a much better version done by a true artist, of the two of us hugging that said “mom loves you haley”. her last breath was taken at night and everybody cried because she left her friends and family behind when she was sealed in her coffin of colored pencils and chemo. at her funeral i stood beside her grave and let a balloon that said “see you soon” fly into the clouds so she would get my message in heaven.

Confession #10 (7/6/2015 5:45pm)

I can be so small minded sometimes. I forget that you aren’t like me – that most of the people you’ve met, or I’ve met, aren’t like me at all. I used to have quite a complex about that. I would try to make myself as small as possible, to fit into the mold of what people want to be around. Selfless, sweet, caring, kind, devoted. There are so man adjectives to describe the kind of person that people fall in love with.

The problem is, I’m pretty certain I’m not any of those things.

When it’s quiet like it is tonight I can sometimes hear the small sound of something not quite right inside of myself, like a gear that isn’t in sync with the rest of the clock. I still try to do that, even now, fit into a fixture that I have no business being in.

As I write, the rain starts to fall, and I think maybe it’s a sign for my sadness. So deeply rooted in me that I can’t even feel it. That as I write I am smiling but have no business doing so. Under the cover of the rain, I can feel that need to cry. But the tears simply won’t come. Not for me. Not now.

The truth is, I’m a very selfish person. I have no excuse. No amount of abuse I’ve been through and no amount of torment, no matter the people who walked all over me all my life, can make up for my behavior. They are not me, they may have helped create me, but I always wanted to be better than what they tried to make me into.

I honestly used to believe that.

I was going to be better than the mother who abandoned me. Than the second mother who pushed me down again and again. Than the past lovers who always walked all over me, simply because they could. I would be a better human being. I would make beauty out of pain. I would be stronger, kinder, more descent. For a while, I thought I was just that. I thought I helped the people I came in contact with.

And then I met you. And I saw what real selflessness was. I realized, am still realizing, that I am nothing like that.

If I were braver, I would always be myself and not care what anyone else thought of me. I would be unapologetic. I wanted to be.

It’s taken a long time for me to realize I already am. But for all the wrong reasons. I love the selflessness I see in other people. Even as cynical as I am I have always believed that there is a genuine good in people, even the most horrible people.

But not in me.

Because I’m not like anyone else. It sounds narcissistic to say that I think. But I’ve been told that my whole life, by everyone. I didn’t know why. At times I even thought it was a compliment. But I’m starting to get that maybe it was said in sadness, in regret for having known me.

You who are selfless. You always meant it as something kind. But I don’t deserve kindness or luck or dreams come true. I work for them nonetheless because I am determined. It used to be because I wanted to help people. And I still do. When I see myself as successful, I see myself giving money to people who need it. Giving smiles to those who might otherwise cry. Giving my words to the world like some precious gift that they might hold and look upon and feel from.

I only started to realize today that all the beauty I wanted to give is cold. The kind you look at but can’t stand to touch, like an explosion or a trainwreck. Something artful but horrible all at the same time. I am sad and that comes out in my words. I am not like other people and that comes out too. And I find myself wondering if I am draining the world dry, sucking it all in to the emptiness I feel just to feel…something.

Selfish.

Cold.

My mother kept telling me I was born to grow up and do great things. But great doesn’t always equate to good. It just means large or life changing.

My biggest fear has always been disappointing all the people around me. Never being good enough. But I’m not good. I’m different. And I think that means that I deserve to be surrounded by people who are as selfish as I am, because at least then we’d know we were going to hurt one another.

My confession?

It’s that I don’t know who or what or why I am anymore. And I’d like to believe that that is okay. But deep down I know that it probably isn’t. That even with all my honesty I will fade like fires in the oncoming rain. And a part of me is alright with that. A part of me believes it would be better that way. But another part wishes to fight tooth and nail against that outcome. I just don’t know what’s wrong with me.

What I Write At 2AM

In a convenient and Grecian tragety, I am an uninspired writer, and have turned to reality to fill the void of a healthy imagination. The trees around me are green, and beautiful; while the roots below carve the pavement into a swollen hill. And down by the intersection a lady in orange calls out for the children, “Hurry, now!” The children cross, and I am left to stand ontop of my hill alone. And as my legs lock in place the trees that surround me begin to feel as if they were collapsing inward at my direction. They are no longer beautiful, I have stood still for too long. I am the sun, now, and all the leaves are melting. If I stay here any longer i am afraid there will be more unnecessary ash. Though, conscious of how close I was from an artistic shattering, it is best for me to walk and breathe. I cross the street and there is silence. Nothing magical, nothing that suffocates, or screams for attention. I wonder whether my words, are the words of a coward; and whether I must suffer immensely before anything worthwhile flows. Does ink spill like blood? I can hear the children play in red and blue and green and untamed colors. I can hear a girl laugh as the boys whisper to themselves. I can see them slide in reverse. While my mind lingers; there are fingers, each one poking at ten different insecurities, at ten different children. My broken nose, the way he talks. I am desperate for a distraction. A car going 90 mph on the 101 up north. I fasten my pace, I am going home.

A time no longer ours. A dead plant to be watered. A limbless mass, a black ball of pencil scribbles that says, We could have had much more. I miss it. I miss you. (No, I don’t.) A some other time, not this. A fixed shape that doesn’t fit on my lap the way it used to, doesn’t call my name with the same summer sound. A refund that can’t be made after 7 days. An expiry to everything. Bad eggs in the fridge screaming like baby birds. Bad bread by the oven you’ll never remember to throw away. Bad nostalgia that lies to you. The time ticks. Always wanting more of something: more love, more days, more rice, more words, please. Sometimes it ends the way it should. Sometimes an accident happens.

I ask myself how can I possibly still be sad
But I think I’m not sad
I’m just bored out of my mind

Sometimes a person walks into your life and you experience so much excitement
Returning to normalcy is like falling from the sky

it’s taking me forever to stop missing the high

—  “I feel nothing” // a story a day #226 by d.yang