She says she wants to see me again, 
and I love the way she lies, 
acting as if we aren’t strangers or sinners,
her blood bleeding red just like the rest of us, 
her eyes piercing through my soul,
now a mistress of her being.
I never intended to be the secret that shouldn’t be kept,
dancing with the sexiest sin,
tongue tied in lust and betrayal.
I didn’t ask to be a part of the tango
between what breaks a marriage and what fuels it.
I used to be a lover and a saint;
Now I’m just a good fuck, a one night stand, the lady on the side;

Running Down Fire Escapes

Burn the old pictures
They’re all a lie anyways
And tell our neighbor that it’s getting bad this time
We’ll have to burn everything
A giant bonfire of the things we’ve lied about in the past 20 years
Maybe we can smell what our happiness used to be
If we stand close enough.

Ignorance in the bright lights
Exclusion at the right time
The rings were too shiny to look worn
And if you think I’m lying just look down at your lonely fingers
The wrinkles lacking stories of togetherness
We were just something you designed
Felt like you needed and then left to die.

Like a fucking plant that looked nice at the grocery store
but then you got home and realized that it needed water everyday
And you laughed because that was a silly thing to need
But did it anyways for awhile because it would cry to you for love
Just answering a call like you do at work
Needing the transparency that only water is capable of
You couldn’t even do that.

You could’ve cleaned us
So we wouldn’t be so flammable
You looked away when the fire started
And decided that it was easier to turn from the heat for warmth
Even when you smelled your own flesh burning
You still laughed
Like a family on a postcard to a water park
We were never really meant to look okay
But people bought it anyways.

You gave up
And now I have nowhere to call mine
Maybe we could split the last name
In to three parts
That way none of us have to pretend that we share anything anymore.

I’m choking on the ash of our lives
And I’m afraid they’ll never leave my lungs.

Do we exist at all?
On the West Coast I live in a small town the news often wrongfully names,

On the East Coast,
I do not live,
Or anywhere outside my small town.

These words exist in your mind, but I am nothing, a girl at the very least,
You glance at on the street, or in car, but dont mind to think of.

We keep eachother alive, with other people who are nobody like me, alive but deprived of existence, of self worth, of living.


My least favorite word in the English language is ‘enough.’ Just look at it—that E is just pretentious, and I still hate that ‘GH’ makes a ‘ff’ sound in some words. ‘Enough’ has crept through the cracks in my ceiling and woken me with a start at two in the morning when the streets are cold and the wind rustles empty sheets and fluttering hearts. It wants to crawl into my bed and rest beside me, stare at me, and whisper empty words that reference promises from many nights ago when I could still sleep at night without worrying that something so vile would dare poison my thoughts.

I have never been enough.

My grades sang lower keys of F’s and D’s. You won’t find my body advertised at any department store. My eyes need thick frames to picture their world. My thoughts don’t work anything like yours. My words are never heard. My heart is never touched. Nobody has bothered to stop by and take a look at me because my resume is covered with last week’s dirt and last year’s hopes, and honey, I know that isn’t appealing. Everyone wants clean, pristine, found between magazine pages and documentaries that don’t talk about those of us who aren’t so good with the words out of our mouths so we put them on paper and point and hope you’ll notice when we hold them high.

But just because you didn’t notice them, doesn’t mean they’re not there.

I am tired of dropping down city drains and sinking to dark depths where nobody can see me. That ‘E’ is still staring at me, that ‘GH’ is still hissing at me—my blankets are too warm and the edge of my mattress is drawing closer and closer while the floor parts its lips and sighs its humid breath and waits for me to topple and I can’t say I can do this—

I’ve had enough.

—  Enough. by MR.
Society is to blame for the reason that girls fall in love with assholes. When your young, people tell you that if he picks on your favorite sweater, he actually really likes it. That if he is always mean to you, he really has a crush on you and just won’t admit it. That if he calls you names, pulls your pigtails and ignores you, he really likes you. So why is it okay for us to tell young girls that,
“If he’s mean he really likes you”,when as we age we downgrade women who choose the wrong man?
—  F.G

There is a door to nowhere that you’ve been dying to open. Go ahead and do it.
There is nothing in this world that can stop you from reaching for the stars except for the toxic people in your bedroom. There is nowhere you cannot go but the people in your mind won’t let you.
Kick them out. Take control.

This life will punch you in the face. Hard.
And even when every song in your playlist makes you want to cry, make sure in your heart you know that there is a miracle waiting to happen right outside your door.

Walking on glass is always going to hurt; it’s always going to bleed.
Get off of this road of self-destruction and I promise you, the universe will crumble at your feet.
Go ahead and paint that empty wall in your room, it’s time to start living your life; it’s time to start creating.

You haven’t stopped to smell the roses since the day they told you life will only be a success if you are always moving, progressing.
Take a moment to notice how the trees outside your window are recreating themselves.
Do not let this world take away the simple pleasure of noticing.

I understand that burning that t-shirt of his seems like the most natural thing but do not let your impulses control you.
Send him his t-shirt back with a note that says you’ve moved on.

When was the last time you put your well-being over others?
I know there are a lot of wounds you need to tend to and there are a lot of get-well-soon cards you have to make but there is nothing more important than the emotional stability of the nurse at a hospital.
Take the day off to pamper yourself.

Let yourself go.
Once in a while, it does not hurt to let your heart take over. Listen to it, it has been singing about the beauty of sky for a long time.
Look up.

I think it is time to put the sword down and take a step back from the fight. It has been a long time since you told her how much you love her.
Buy some flowers and some chocolate; kiss her until your lipstick stain has been imprinted on her heart.

Freedom crumbles on your tongue like a sugarcube and the sound of your wings flapping is music to your ears.
But it is a good idea to listen to advice sometimes.
It is okay to let someone lead you out of this maze.

Your work load will consume you and your dedication will eat you from the inside out.
Take a moment to breathe, to let go. Roll your windows down and throw out your notepad.
Watch the paper, the stress, the responsibility fly away on your way to that ballet you’ve been dying to see.
Do not feel guilty. You’ve eared this moment.

It is okay to cry with the bathroom door shut and it is okay to let your room be a mess. The world will be waiting for you with love in its arms when you’re done healing yourself.
Let yourself feel.

It feels okay to let someone walk all over you as long as they hand you a smile and a few compliments once in a while.
You’re your own person, your own dreams, your own prize.
Step out of their shadow and find yourself. There is nothing more rewarding than finding the light in your soul and the answers in your heart.

—  The stars are talking to you tonight. (quitefearless)

“I still care about him,” she started, when I asked about him.

“I mean, how can I not?” Her eyes began to wander to the ceiling. “He was my friend first, before all this catastrophe happened. He cared about me when no one did. He accompanied me when I was alone. He listened to all my mindless ramblings. He made me feel like I was invincible. He defended me. He made me smile even when I didn’t want to.”

She glanced at him and smiled a little. “The happiness he brought when he came into my life is much bigger than the sadness.”

—  A.A // im fine

“I’m asexual,” I tell her, “and possibly aromantic too.”

“Are you sure?” she asks, frowning at me. “Because you could be just confused, you know? Or maybe you haven’t met the right person yet.”

I am breathless. She is looking at me like I have ceased to be normal.

I think about the fourteen year old girl who had stumbled across an article about asexuality. She had felt an overwhelming sense of relief. But she later folded the newspaper into a tiny square and threw it away, because she did not want to be different. The thought terrified her so she spent the rest of the day reminding herself that a girl in her society grew up and got married and had children and did everything expected from her.

I think about the sixteen year old, who couldn’t make a list of the celebrities she lusted after, when her friends were giggling and playing truth at a sleepover. She stumbled over her words and her friends assumed that she was a prude.

I think about the eighteen year old whose parents kept waiting all her teenage years to date someone, giving her playful warnings along the way. Eventually, they started to drop hints, trying to draw her into conversations about boys, desperately hoping to see her show interest in someone.

The feeling of being inadequate and wrong and incomplete reappears with a vengeance. But I manage to smile, stare at her right in the eye and say, “I’m sure.”

Your parents told you
to sit with your legs closed,
Baby, do not mistake that
for vulnerability
You were made out of
broken glass like a mosaic
The breath-taking beauty is a facade
You were built to protect yourself.
When your parents tell you to
carry pepper-spray,
do not mistake that
for fragility
You have fires burning inside you
Cities have crumbled
under the heat of your will.
Darling, when they tell you
to not speak up,
do not mistake that
for inferiority
It is they who are scared
They dread you’ll break free.
—  You are neither weak nor servile. You are a thunder storm. (quitefearless)

If He was land, I was sea.

He was beautiful eyes, steady smiles, on starry nights.

And I was swimming in an ocean of uncertainty. Rolling and turbulent. Wondering if this could ever work.

I asked, “Aren’t you afraid of drowning?”

And He said, “Darling, we are from worlds apart. But the sky has always been the same.”

—  A scribbler // Meet Me At the Shoreline