when the ink leaves your fist

Destroy the idea that you need someone to save you. Listen to me, I know your hands shake a lot. I know you cry easy. I know the world frightens you. But listen to me, you have always picked yourself up with your own two hands. I know Wednesday nights are longer than they’re supposed to be, know how you stay up all night to talk to him, to anyone. I know how you think his hands around your neck kept you together. I know how when he said he loved you, you believed it. I know how when they said you looked beautiful, you stopped looking too long in the mirror. I know how you stopped writing about death. I know how waking up stopped feeling as heavy. I know how you felt strong for the first time with your fists on his chest, with his breath in between your teeth. But listen to me, you have always been this strong. You have the hands of a warrior after battle. Your teeth have always been strong, your eyes always beautiful. Destroy the idea that you are doe-eyed, wounded thing. Destroy the idea that he is saviour. Destroy the idea that when he leaves, all your strong will leave with him. Listen to me, you are so much more than you know. Listen to me, you are your own saviour.

there is no right or wrong way to love.
there is no right or wrong way
to wear your heart on your sleeve,
to wake up in the middle of the night
with only sunflowers in your veins,
to want to spend the rest of your life
radiating a person as if they are joy.
there is no right or wrong way to love,
but darling, please.
you never fucking loved me.

you can stop trying to convince
yourself otherwise. you can stop
blaming your fault lines on your
lack of self-confidence, your sad
interior, your uncaring nature,
your family who never taught you
how to love without limits.

i don’t deserve to settle for this
half-assed love, this love that makes
my bones shake and my lungs fill
with oceans instead of oxygen.
darling, love knows no excuses.
love doesn’t leave the doorstep
when the rain starts and come
knocking when the sun’s out.
love grabs an umbrella. love is
not afraid. love doesn’t have to
be taught how to stay.

note to self: when you find fists
made of iron and a heart made of stone,
use your strength to run instead of
trying to teach them how to
love you the right way. because
there is no right or wrong way to love,
but you never fucking loved me.

—  darling, please
Hand Over Fist

Everyone will demand you give a hundred percent,
Stating anything otherwise is rejection of your best.
Yet how would someone divide their efforts equally,
When every request leaves them with nothing left?

It’s in these moments I am reminded of this lesson,
Of knowing when to be good and when to be great.
Because your “all” doesn’t have to be an obligation,
But if they disagree… politely slap them in the face.

I.
you’ll need soft, thin muslin and a needle and thread.
trace him out with a crayon. cut with a steady
hand. cut with the sharpest scissors you own. my mother
always said, you have to make it so your seams don’t show.
that means tiny stitches. that means slow going
and a sure needle.

take your time. soon you’ll sew up all your heartbreaks
by hand.

II.
fill him. fill him with beans, kernels, seeds: something
organic, something hard, like he was. stitch him tight up
the back. let your fingertip worry the seam like you used
to stroke his spine.

i wouldn’t suggest kissing him–he’s cool to the touch, all
lumps and cotton when your lips only remember silk–
but there’s no harm in it. not anymore.

III.
pour yourself a glass of wine. pour him a draught of lighter
fluid. toss a match with one hand and toast him with
the other. close your eyes and listen to his stuffing
clatter to the ground. it will sound like hail,
fireworks,
gunfire:
a punishment,
a revolution,
a warning.

IV.
this is what you make when you keep leaving fist-sized holes
in the walls.

when you can’t stand the idea of hurting him,
but you can’t stand him, either.

—  YOU WON’T FIND THIS ON PINTEREST, by jones howell
"Metronome" ~ Taehyung (V) Scenario

AN: Based off from Jay Park’s “Metronome.” Babe. But anyway, was listening to it ALL day and this came to be ~ Angst with a happy ending!


Summary: Taehyung and you are at the brink of breaking up, to never be again. Arguing. Never synced with the other. Silence takes over the home and it’s empty. Taehyung only knows, that if things start to fail him, he must start from the beginning. 


Metronome (me-truh-nohm): (noun) If only we could be at the same tempo, the same beat. “We’re not in sync, why are we always off baby?” Our beat isn’t right. 

When you’re cold, I’m hot
But when one wants to leave, the other begs not to go

Keep reading

his palms are warm because he fills them with
etchings of dates and numbers, like you, like the
way the world leaves grass stains on your laundry,
like words on paper, like scars on people

his dreams, he says, are bigger than yours
and you listen about the sugar plums and the stars and
about the girl he has loved since the seventh grade
his dreams are bigger than yours
but not bigger than you


his words have always been oil spills of color,
dimensions of the flesh ripped to open wounds,
leaving ink stains on your kitchen floor
you open your hands and he gets angry when
you only catch red


his heart is beating fuschia, contained by
his fists and what he thinks is the truth
so the next time he tells you he cares
watch the corners of his mouth rise, in attempt
to fit compassion into his mouth

—  he has always been who you thought he was
my problem is that
I write the love poems
before the love is there
and when you leave (which
you will)
I will be left on my knees
fists clenched around these
crumpled pieces of paper
trying to scream “look
at these! look at them!
there is love here!”
as if these words do not simply
fall through your fingers
like sand
—  hope is a dangerous thing | s.c.l.

I took the best things and turned them into pain, made our friendship a timebomb, a ticking, teetering tower of romanticizing, understanding beyond words, poetry that I couldn’t stop writing, a song that kept playing every time you stood next to me, jokes only we’d ever get. 

It was all good, all the flower of friendship blooming between us, because you and I are so alike it’s ridiculous, so similar that I don’t filter what I say with you most of the time. It was all good, really good, it was long conversations and telling you more than I had told anyone. It was our favorite book and inside jokes shared through raised eyebrows, we were such good friends.

We could still be friends.
Except I can’t be your friend.

I wish I was unselfish enough to be entirely happy for you, watch you go off with her and be strong enough to smile and mean it. I wish that I could be the friend who listens to you talk about love and doesn’t mind you’ll never love me like that.

I wish we could still talk forever about writing and books and the chaotic nature of our own minds, because those conversations are the rushing excitement you feel after a rollercoaster, adrenaline and inspiration and life, but I can’t do that anymore.

I can’t be your friend when I feel this way about you. I can’t put myself through seeing you and making you laugh and the constant, gruesome threat of maybe.

Because I took the best things and made them bigger, took our friendship and made it romance, took friends talking and turned it into a love story, just waiting for you to say yes.

Because even though falling in love with you was easy and inevitable, a night of writing where the words flowed out of me with hardly a hint of pain, falling out of love with you would be like reversing the direction of the waves. Impossible. And every time I try, the way I feel about you crashes down into me, crushing me down and making my ears pop with the pressure, closing my throat, leaving me with cuts in my palms from clenching my fists, trying not to scream.

And this stirring in my soul, the deep burning from the inside out, already pushes me out the door.
I cannot stay here.
I cannot be your friend.

—  “When I Knew (Tuesday)”
Everyone else could let go of you like tearing their eyes away from the stars but I still have all the memories of loving you burned into my retinas. 
It’s easiest to forget on cloudy days when I don’t have the sun reminding me of your smile. 
Anyone else could have been enough, but it was always you with the whole sunrise tucked into the color of your eyes and your fingers curled around my wrist, always ready to take off. 
I would have run to the moon and back with you, baby.
I would have followed you anywhere. 
Some days I still find myself at your heels,
my knees skinned and my palms bloody. 
You’ve knocked me down so many times and I need to leave before I can’t get back up.
I say it to myself, over and over again. Walking away. Walking away. I taste it on the tip of my tongue like your strawberry lip gloss. 
I dust myself off and hope for a day where you aren’t the whole sky, when my world doesn’t fit inside your fist anymore.
—  The Girl and the Sky by Auriel Haack

The worst part about disappearing
is that you always leave behind traces.
Footprints on freshly fallen snow,
something that can be walked over
and covered up but still a cavity I try to fill.

It’s no longer warm in the places
where you’ve touched me but where you 
were light embers against my skin,
I now have sloppy tongues and clenching fists
trying to ignite a flame in me–
they are not who you were
and you have not left my mind.


I stopped using my clock,
I feel every second that passes without
you by my side is like a rock hammering
against the walls of my heart.
You are gone but not really,
not when I can still feel your words
and your feelings stir within me.

—  The pieces they leave behind