there are mornings
when I wake up
with the taste of you
in my mouth
I wonder how this
still happens,
counting the months
as I stare at porcelain tiles.
four since I told you
we couldn’t be friends.
five since I called you,
drunk and sobbing.
six since we made plans
to catch up, again.
seven since I messaged you
for your birthday.
eight since you called me,
broken and grieving.
nine since I left home,
my heart heavier than my bags.
ten since I kissed you
for the last time
in the street light
and walked away.
I wipe my mouth
with the back of my hand,
remember when you
used to hold me.
we lost our way.
it was inevitable, I know,
but I remember
the good months.
eleven since you drove me home
and let me sing along to the radio
as you took wrong turns
and endless highways.
twelve since we spent the night dancing
and I kissed you at three in the morning
two nights in a row,
our promises running like water.
thirteen since you brought me flowers
for my birthday and stayed late,
your smile infectious as we
watched each other.
fourteen since I let my heart
take the lead and asked you out,
my body open wires
until you responded: of course.
I watch myself in the mirror,
looking at this girl
who’s in all of these damn photos
with you.
but we are not one and the same.
time plays cruel tricks,
and I know,
the girl in the photos is naïve.
(via late-night-contemplations)
I have my mother’s hair,
thin and brown and simply pretty.
I have my father’s nose,
long and asymmetrical and ordinary.
I have my mother’s strength,
the scars of fighting battles
with myself,
with this world.
I have my father’s temper,
the product of uneven ground
and people who think
they know best.
I have my mother’s presence,
this thing we cannot describe
that draws strangers to us
with big smiles.
I have my father’s quiet stare,
lost in the world around us,
trying to make sense of pieces
without seeing the whole.
I have their determination,
my father, to make him proud;
my mother, to make her happy.
I have their flaws,
my father, how we both shut people out;
my mother, how she brings people too close.
I have their hopes,
my father, to be successful;
my mother, to be someone
worth knowing.
I spent eighteen years
trying to make my body
a home for positivity,
a space for sunshine
and love and happiness.
I broke my bones
to make a cage
inside my chest
for my heart, a safe space
for the bird that resided there.
And I let her live,
let her thrive,
let her out to see the world
and try to survive.
But that damn bird
let people pluck her bare,
let the world rip her apart
under the pretense of
love.
And then she came back,
battered but still hopeful,
bleeding but still trying
to justify, to make sense.
I had
no choice.
I shut her inside
and locked the cage,
bent my bones closed again
and let my ribs turn
to steel.
I spent eighteen years
trying to make my body
a home for positivity,
but the world is
too toxic.
I want to know where this story ends, where these winding roads finally come together and lead us home. I want to know if we’ll ever be more than what we are right here and now.
Will you ever love me? Will you ever need me like you thought you needed her? Will I kiss you like I kissed him, in desperate gasps and reckless passion?
It’s the not knowing that gets me. It’s like wandering through a labyrinth without knowing if there’s even an exit and I can’t live like this.
check out my new writing blog which is sadly sitting at 0 followers right now. help me get started!
DFTBA, lovelies!
-your sole remaining admin
SLYTHERIN: “God will punish the wicked. And before He does, we will.” -John Green (Looking for Alaska)
hey guys! I recently started a blog for my writing (poetry, paragraph snippets) and would appreciate any follows!
right now it’s all reblogs from here but I’ll start posting writings solely to there this week!
- Hank Green: [The bird] is afraid of itself, which is what's happening. [...]
- John Green: It's funny. I'm laughing. I'm laughing like 'birds are so stupid.' But, of course, I am also afraid of my self.