I hold my own hands.
I brew my own coffee in the morning.
There’s nothing better than being in love with yourself,
no one else will know your knobs and windows
and junk drawers.
Tell people to view you as nothing but a miracle.
After centuries upon centuries of evolution and mistake
and more evolution, you are here.
Don’t take it for granted like I did, building up
years of self-hatred because the curve of my collarbone
is not the shape of a bow.
Let it be known you are a miracle, an off-chance
of evolution, compiled of stardust and greatness.
I touch my own cheeks when I need to remember
what beautiful things feel like.
I open my own doors, I write myself love poems.
People say there is a perfect half waiting for you,
but it’s already there.
It’s my left side, my locked wardrobe, the cold
side of the pillow.
It’s the dormant part of you that holds the other one
high enough to see over the horizon.
i. When you showed up at my doorstep in your
faded band tee shirt, dirty conserves, and hair
messed in your face like you just got done
fucking in bed, then fell asleep for a few hours.
Your breath smelled like leftover alcohol and
every word you spoke burned my wounds.
It was our first date, at the end of it I kinda, s
orta, hoped that it was the last.
ii. When you told me I wore so much make up,
and asked why I always put “so much effort
into attempting to look good.” Attempting.
iii. When the first time I said no you looked
at me like I slapped you across the face and
ripped a piece of your being away from you.
You looked at me like you were waiting for
an apology so I gave you a sorry like left over
change in my pocket.
iv. When we talked it was always about the
world and how it was out to get you, that it
didn’t offer you one damn good thing, and
that everyone in your life was temporary,
and fuck, I should’ve knew what was coming.
v. When I looked at you and saw a nobody,
somebody that meant nothing. I felt nothing.
vi. When the “dates” we went on were nothing
but sitting in your basement, the clouds of
smoke you’d blow in my face. I told you how
much I hated smoking, but you did it anyway,
most the time it was just to irritate me.
vii. When you tried to push me on the bed
and asked me to stay the night, I cried out in
the bleak air and pressed my head against your
chest. I had a flashback to when I was seven and
forced to give myself up. You looked at me and
said, “what the fuck is wrong with you?”
viii. When love slowly fell out of your vocabulary
as you slowly fell out of my heart.
If the real world were a book, it would never find a publisher. Overlong, detailed to the point of distraction-and ultimately, without a major resolution.
— Jasper Fforde, Something Rotten (via feellng)
I feel guilty for skipping church and I feel guilty for sometimes only brushing my teeth in the morning and not at night and I feel guilty for eating junk food and I feel guilty for not telling my dad I love him and I feel guilty for skipping a workout and I feel guilty for not washing my dishes and I feel guilty for not thanking my mom like I should and I feel guilty for not being a better big sister and I feel guilty for the things I did to my wrist that would drive my parents through the roof with fear and guilt themselves I feel guilty for the fact that my mom is trying so hard but can’t understand what it’s like I feel guilty for shutting her out I feel guilty for not giving my dog enough attention I feel guilty that I can’t trust anyone fully I feel guilty that I still taste your fucking words in my mouth I feel guilty for still fucking thinking about you when I promised myself I wouldn’t anymore
Agreed . But sometimes words are the only thing that make sense to me lol it’s weird
I feel your pain when you write and the rhythm you put with it, I like it a lot. And thank you, my mind is a weird place to be Lol I think it’s more jumbled words and scenes that anything though hah
Really?? I don’t think so, but thank you :))
You’re only given a little spark of madness. You mustn’t lose it.
— Robin Williams (via the-writing-writer-wrote)