I kick this dead horse for a heart like hoping to jump-start the murder victim back to stable condition just to kill it again. I start fires just to feel how warm your burning body sparks up magic in my skin. I stare into the fractured moon and long to speak in a language I can’t understand. Cross between a silver chord and bucking wild wind whips the clouds into a spell to dance over the twilight in unison. I sing a song about how our gods think that they’ve been cursed by a witch. I forget the line about how I love you so much that it scares me to death.
—  Joshi \ moon gaze

I’m needy.

There, I said it. But it doesn’t mean what you think it means. It doesn’t mean I want to deprive you from your friends and family. It means I want to feel like you want me to be part of your daily life just like they are. I want you to bring me to family holidays so your great aunt can ask about my name. I want you to hold my hand while we’re sitting on the couch of your grandparents house and they’re telling stories about you when you were four years old. I don’t want you to hold me. I want you to figure out how my body works and show me affection. I want your hand on my back, asking me about the scar on the back of my arm. I want you stroking my hair while you tell me all the things you think about late at night. I don’t want you to coddle me. I don’t want you to constantly text me. I just want you to tell me when you make it home so I know you’re safe for the night. I want you to tell me about the bad day you had and how you found out your grandpa has cancer. I want to know how all of this makes you feel. I don’t want be another “needy” girl to you. I want to be entirely yours, and most of all, I need to know that you are entirely mine.

So yeah, I guess I’m a little “needy.”

—  Needy

11 p.m. is for single mothers
who cradle a glass of wine in their fingers
and wait for the sound of a child crying
they hope will never come—
it always does.

12 a.m. is for high school students
to do homework they didn’t have time to do
after lacrosse practice and dance rehearsal—
they yearn to rest their tired eyes
but cannot.

1 a.m. is for sneaking into your bedroom
on a school night at seventeen,
reminding yourself how tired
you will be in the morning,
convincing yourself it was worth it.

2 a.m. is for star-crossed lovers
rolling in bed sheets smelling of
alcohol and tragic dreams that
ironically lull them to sleep.

3 a.m. is for hopeless romantics
wishing under late-night skies
for someone to talk to,
for someone who gets it.

And all of those people think
they’ve got it bad, but
when 4 a.m. rolls around the corner,
the past sinks into your veins—

4 a.m. is too late for anyone to save you,
for when 4 a.m. tells you,
“You can’t do this anymore,”
you believe it.

—  4 a.m. / @scarredconversations

DEMETER: I sent you to Hades so you could be stronger and now you are, so come back.


DEMETER: What! You dare defy me? Wilful child.

PERSEPHONE: I am no child. I am a ruler and Hades himself quivers before me. I bring the Erinyes to their knees. I am become an arrow, poised in flight. Save your threats, Mother, I quite like winter, it is as cold as me -

—  Venetta O., excerpt of “I AM BECOME THE DARK”
It’s so sad to me that this generations idea of romance is centered around texts. I don’t want you to just text me. I want you be curious about me, I want you to watch me and discover all of my little quirky details. I want you to sit with me in my car in the middle of the night while I yell about the bad day I had. I want to hold hands in the movies. I want little kisses between sentences. I want you to fall for me– but not for my words that appear on your phone screen. I want you to discover me.
—  Romance is over

HESTIA: You think me unworthy of Olympus?

ZEUS: Not unworthy. Less worthy.

HESTIA: Pretty words, brother. They do not suit you.

ZEUS: They are the truth.

HESTIA: The truth! You want the truth? I have the very fires of Olympus in me. For centuries I have tended to them, made sure the mountain survived – you will not take this away from me. I have sat there, throughout everything. I know all your trickery, brother. I know the folly in your heart. It would do you good to listen. I could burn this all down in a heartbeat and even Kronos himself could not stop me. Time is nothing when you have been still for so long. My name means altar. Bow to me.

—  Venetta O., excerpt of “THIS IS ABOUT ME NOW”
I don’t give a damn what you think
I’ll scream in quiet rooms
And sing in public places.
I will eat too much junk food one week,
Run three miles a day the next.
You have no strings on me:
The Venn-Diagram of our orbits
Are two separate circles.
I will shed tears when I want,
Laugh at stupid jokes,
Blessed lord, I’ll make them too.
I don’t give a shit at the face you make
When I binge-drink on a Tuesday
Or take myself out to an expensive ass restaurant.
Here’s my middle-finger to you saying
“Gosh, look at him,
He’s so profane in this poem.”
This poem would get a high-five from Bukowski.
Damn right it’s cocky,
This poem puffs its chest out at the gym.
Sure, it’s not healthy
But who’s one to talk
When you get an extra shot of espresso
In your shitty black coffee.
I’m not afraid to fuck up,
I will ruin my life on the daily
But I’ll do it on my own terms
I will fall apart gracefully.
—  “I Have Lost My Ability To Give A Shit; So Suck It, Alright?” - Nishat Ahmed
Dear God, let me be something terrible,
jagged rocks by the sea and salt swallow. Something
made of bulldozers and a thousand spit of outburst.
I won’t blame anyone for my hands, I promise,
not even my mother. When I was inside her
I was beautiful. When I was inside her I was a heartbeat
thinking I don’t want to be anything else. Why did
you have to make me something else? Here’s a photo
of a great white shark feeding on flesh. Here’s a landslide
swallowing a forest. Time travel back into time
and space, here’s the big bang.  At least, no one
was breathing yet. At least, I didn’t hurt anyone yet.
I’m terrible at being human. I am most selfish,
most frightening, most asteroid. So make me a planet
instead. Make it a thousand light-years away.
Give me storms and I’ll call them by my name.
Give me storms and I’ll become all of them.
—  Most Asteroid | Kharla M. Brillo

The Chinese character for fire, 火,
is so written because it resembles the shape of a flame itself. The
character for eye, 目, resembles the shape of an eye. The character for door, 门, resembles the shape of a door, complete with a knocker on top. So on and so forth.

If I were to write you, you would be 关, meaning: closed. Meaning: cut, barrier. Resembling the shape of a gate. Meaning: I will never knock on your door again.

—  Venetta O., “回”
Why is it a compliment to call me mature for my age, wise beyond my years, while it is still a compliment to reference the youthful spirit of the elderly? If I am youthful in my youth, must I be foolish? Is it the sole act of a fool to develop and formulate thoughts appropriate to one’s actual age? A girl of sixteen is allowed to act like a teenager - that’s exactly what she is. I don’t have to defy the norm to be taken seriously.
—  Excerpt from a book I’ll never write #191 // Grazia Curcuru

And at first when our lips
pressed together in a kiss
that never quite ended
but somehow transitioned
into another, then another, then another
I thought that to you I was more of an item
and less of a lover.

But then your hand, ever so gently,
caressed the side of my face
and the other pulled me
into a closer embrace
and I felt like one
once trapped under the sea
who could finally breathe because
here, at last, was someone
who wouldn’t attempt to use me.

—  // Please tell me you’re not a wolf // S.K.K. // May 15, 2016 //

I think we really did it this time.
We finally hit this hard enough to break it

and most days, I miss you,
but every day, I wake up knowing
walking away was the right decision.
Now it’s just me here: two hands,
one heartbeat, a pool of sadness,
and it’s just you there: biting your lip,
unmatched socks and forgotten feelings

and my heart used to beat so fast
when you said my name but now
I’m dreading the next time that we speak
because where there used to be laughter
there will be nothing but silence
and you’ll tell me you’re doing well
and I’ll tell you I’ve never been better,

but the truth is, I am so fucking sad
we’re going to end up as strangers.

—  I can’t believe this was supposed to end / @scarredconversations