I have bled all over town to get someone to cauterize this
Spilling of myself
I tried so many times to carve out these veins and kill that girl,
Because she felt heavy and sore
But where would I be without her - my lost, my love -
Who trusts in me to seal her skin
And make her tick again?
I would plunge her heart until it beats
And feed her fluids until she swells up from these
Brittle bones wrapped up in sheets.
She would be sun-speckled and plump
Off warm bread and broth, a shiny white scar
Where she was once crimson and gushing.
I would nurture her pink, my gray girl,
And put roses in her cheeks so deep she would
Never want for flowers, for she’d bloom like Spring,
Petals red as blood but soft as Summer in the snow.
Why?
Because why not?
A flawed logic which argues that
In the absense of “don’t”
Is the justification of “do”
There are no gray matters in white or black
No quantum or mathematical theories
That combine “a” or “b”
Into “c” simply because you could not choose
A choice,
And my universe splits into two
There isn’t a second before it is out of my reach,
Already evolving into A without me
While I stand in a swarm of “B”s that buzz into eternity
My eternity
“Do” drips from the black sky.
Why decide that B
Is any different from A
Except to attribute an absolute value
In which you determine that one is negative
And the other is not, in which case
Why would you choose B?
Because why not?
Universes
Sometimes I wish that I could believe in a parallel universe in which some version of me made all the right decisions and can live blissfully and happy. I wish that for every good thing I’ve broken and for every time I was too proud or too childish, that it would be so that this woman would never have to carry the regrets that I have. I’d hope that she doesn’t envy every stranger for their outline and spend all her life questioning why she was born without form. I hope that for all the times I surrendered, she fought. I hope that she has a lot to say, and that she doesn’t doubt that her words hold any meaning. I hope that she believes in her own reality and doesn’t weigh events by their audiences. I hope that her universe is tangible. I hope that she is real. I hope that her life is the product of all the right choices where I chose wrong, if there is any justice in this universe or the next.
Candied
I’m craving sugar cookies and pink frosting, lemonade and perrier
I want to be as well-rounded as a sphere
Drained of blood and filled with confetti and confections
A piñata person who spills rainbows and sugar when it breaks
Dress me in tulle, I want to walk the Magic Kingdom like I’m queen
Carried by balloons and grace and adoration for all there is to love
Pull out the roots, because I’m tired of water,
Of rating my relevance by authenticity
Organic, raw, bland
I’m bored with black on black and cool and calm
Sometimes I like tacky and bright, and acting the fool
I’ve been too serious all my life,
And I’ve told myself all along that I’m cold
When I want only warmth, and color, and sugar.
I am a trinket bottle, with a sea of regret straining inside a few grams of glass.
I really want to have a place one day that feels like a home. I’ve gone a really long time feeling like I don’t have any kind of safe place, and my house is full of a lot of heartache. It’s Mother’s Day and I fell asleep drunk and crying after what this day has become and woke up to my mom slamming the door and vanishing. I wish I had a place to go that felt like love and looked like light. This house feels only like heaviness and ice. There is nothing warm but the burning in my stomach. I just hope that if I do anything in life, I can know that I let love saturate everything I do and leave behind and that every person I meet has the opportunity to bloom without ever doubting how valuable they are and how beautiful it is to be alive.
I recently noticed that I’ve started to resent the extra syllable in my name and all the superfluous traits it seems to expose in me. I’m tired of these minimalistic names that sit so simply on everyone’s lips and the way mine always arrives too soon and leaves too late.
I take great care of myself by carefully shutting myself away.
― Vincent Van Gogh, a letter to his brother, Theo (via apathetic-x)
(Source: stxxz.us)
Static
I’m lucky that cars have brakes when I don’t notice them rushing forward.
I’m too busy looking at the images falling through my head. Airport lights flicker out. The secret garden grows around the little girl who runs away and cries that no one wants her. Old friends shimmer around my drunken body while I curse my mind for staying upright. I’ve been running late all week because I can’t find the right outfit to match my state, but it’s not the fabric but this form that’s not the right shape. There’s something wrong about my skin and how I can’t fill it up, but it still feels too tight. A voice on the stereo claims to be made of water and glass. We’re both trying too hard to pull it off. I’ve got all these strange words that I can’t pronounce echoing in my head and I have to know what they mean by tomorrow, but I just don’t care about them tonight. I’ve been spinning again and struggling to collect the pieces of myself into one vessel. I felt the warning burning me from the inside today, “hold back, go alone.” But I didn’t listen, and I could feel myself shedding spurs onto every living thing. I’m like the molecules I keep reading about, and there’s no oxygen left so I just ferment and all that I create is bitter or burning. I’m projecting again. But my favorite protagonist ran off to find consolation in the enemy when everyone else was gone, and I guess I understand what it’s like when you feel like you have no place to call home and nothing feels solid. Everything keeps spinning and I don’t remember what it was like to feel like gravity could ever cradle me close enough to the ground or what it meant to belong anywhere, or with anyone. I keep lighting up like a fluorescent bulb and trying to pass myself as sunlight so that any living thing might recognize something of substance in me, but I burn out far too fast and end up hoarding everyone else’s light just to keep myself out of the dark.
Mary, Mary, quite contrary, why do you run away when the attention is not on you? Why was the garden you raised not enough for you, or was it all to make them love you? Why is it never enough, and why,
when it finally is enough,
why is it that you are not?
In the end you can’t always choose what to keep. You can only choose how you let it go.
― Ally Condie (via psych-facts)
It seems we need someone to know us as we are - with all we have done - and forgive us. We need to tell. We need to be whole in someone’s sight: Know this about me, and yet love me. Please.
― Sue Miller, While I Was Gone (via creatingaquietmind)
(Source: wordsnquotes.com)
We repeat what we don’t repair.
― Christine Langley-Obaugh (via onlinecounsellingcollege)