I Found Myself Ripping Out My Eyelashes

and I try to ease my loneliness by weaving all of the love I have to give into every corner of every notebook I can find; but nothing can ever ease the ache that fills me when I realize I have a thousand notebooks with a million stories of love and hope and beauty and not a single person to share them with. -The Awkward Poet

Hands tell stories too.

Wounded hands, scarlet lines running down each wrist, bloody knuckles from punching the wall too hard when it was themselves, not the concrete that they felt like destroying, someone who wants to live so badly but says they want to die.

White hands, numb with scant circulation, held in fists so tight, uncut nails digging in pale palms, wishing for a breath of calm, wishing everything to be alright, wishing everything to just end.

Wet hands, wet from wiping their own tears,someone wondering why they can never be enough, wondering if these will be the only hands which will ever be there when their world is ending.

Inked hands, holding thoughts from dead hours, vague scribbles only one person can decipher, strings of words with their heart in them, words they hope stay with someone out there.

Worn out hands, hard with calluses and blisters, scars from tedious labour visible to everyone but the person they belong to, that person hoping it would be enough to keep the little child's dreams alive.

Coloured hands, shivering, with swirls of cheap paint on them, someone who thought they'd relapse that night, but somehow didn't.

Entwined hands, holding each other, fingers between each other's gaps, sharing their heat and their owners, sharing their whole world.

Cold hands, no blood in them, hands that would no longer grow, no longer change, someone grieving their heart out for a person who thought they would be the only one at their funeral the next day.

Eyes aren't the only windows to the soul.

Look carefully, hands tell stories too.

And one day may I lay in an endless landscape of wildflowers

Let my stomach be full and my hair unruly

The sun beating down in true mid morning light

The birds sing a song not of this world

I want to bathe every ounce of a life that was never mine away in the stream a mile north

Icy cold water

Babbling over rocks

Washing away someone’s mother’s screaming

Erasing his sweaty handprints from her body

Let my face be stained with blood red fruit

Sitting underneath the cherry tree

Gorging myself with the very definition of contentment

My cheeks touched by the sun

There is a pleasant sort of exhaustion I will feel

When my basket carries freshly picked fruit

My arms sore from the trees I had scaled

To pick better fruit and gaze at what lies in the field of beauty

It’s 7

The sun is going down

Fireflies take over the land

crickets are chirping a symphony

It’s the kind of spring that you believe might last forever

My window is open

The trees sing their hollow lullaby

I’m asleep in minutes

I wake up to find myself drenched in sweat, the window is closed.

there are no birds.

I must be dreaming.

i used to rub my eyes as a child sitting in bed. when i did so, certain figures would appear, almost pixelizations in a way. It was certainly beautiful. The pressure formed intricate landscapes that I got the perfect view of. It felt like flying.

it could’ve been my strong will or maybe it was my secret city that allowed me to survive my childhood. Id like to think it was my city. When the world got too loud, i would escape to my home. Turning corners with a simple tilt of my head, it was the only place i felt at peace, souring over the city.

i don’t know what changed to cause me to stop visiting. my best guess is the stress of growing up amidst chaos made my adolescent hands to heavy to bring to my eyes. I still mourn my little city. I miss being able to fly.

Everything is fair

Even if the rules

Were never clear

And we didn't mean

This to be played

Like a game

But this is murder

And it will never

Make sense

To anyone

Why you pushed

Me from the rooftop

While I was whispering

I love you

To the stars

Now I'm lying here-

On this cold ground

Feeling everything turns

Upside down

I close my eyes

Breathe my last

As the wind hums

A requiem

For my broken heart

-requiem for my broken heart, katie

will you turn my brittle body into poetry

when the cold kiss of death finally reaches my solitary corpse

will you interpret the path i skipped along

writing brilliant words of how my spirit dances in the wind

or will i be forgotten?

just to become a feast for the life that lives under the surface

scribbled lines in the once lively flesh

it was never pen ink that cherished me so

if my name has not been lost

and you happen to graze upon my initials in a history book

run to my tombstone

letting it be known that it wasn’t all for nothing

recite to my grave lovely words

soothing my wandering soul

remove my past from the chain around my ankle

let my image seep into the setting sun

allow all that is left of me to be the stanzas of a lifetime

an exhibit of beautiful words bleeding from a lifeless body

permit the future to forget the configuration of my skeletal being

but to devote their time to decipher the words you have strung together to recall my existence

please oh please let me be poetry

- sundayafternoonsedentary

i spend hours upon hours lying sedentary within my porcelain throne

filled to the brim with the tears of my past lovers

soaking in the glory of being alone again

~sundayafternoonsedentary

i was a daughter at some point in my mortal existence

now i am what’s left of a child

rugged-worn down being

who’s outgrown the wonder that used to course through her veins

he finally told me he was proud of me yesterday

after i had given all of myself

searching in other people what he didn’t give me

selling parts of my soul for short lived validation

but you’re proud of me dad?

all that is left of me is my heart in your hands

what i’ve become is great he says

but i look in the mirror

and i see a few strands of hair falling from a broken down body

morsels to appreciate

but finally, he is satisfied

-sundayafternoonsedentary

“Reading is one form of escape. Running for your life is another.”

— Lemony Snicket