I Should’ve Jumped When The Ball-point Pen Across The Room Started Scribbling

“i have a problem with letting go of things with clenching my hands like a vice and holding on despite everything it’s why i keep all my memories with me carry them in my phone, on my walls in the little box inside my closet even though it’ll always remain closed i have a hard time letting go of people, of memories that no longer ring true i clutch them like i’d be bereft without them the conversations with people i don’t speak to anymore the photos i want to pull down from my walls the memories i no longer want to recall i never allow myself to mourn i hoard them and keep them close and i just can’t seem to let go.”

— i no longer want to meet new people because i’m afraid one day all they’ll ever be are memories i want to revisit, redo, ones that i want to stay in forever and would forever regret. memories that i would never let go of, but memories, nevertheless | wt.

something about falling snow is unsettling

peaceful to the eye

silencing the havoc throughout homes with a foot of soundproof encasing

sure the purity of the winter is breathtaking

but my lawn has been walked over time and time again

and the chaos is seeping out through the gaps of my snow boots

my screams echo with snow flakes hitting the ground

this chill in my bones is not serene

outside my window the

night spreads like a

virus infecting space with

shadow; smothering the solitary

citadels, the white flags, the bells;

stretching on and on it

erodes all color, all shiny things,

turning them gritty and dull with

void; night cannot last forever yet

even now i suffer the well in my heart

drying up, my eyes only seeing the

flowers on my skin by inadequate starlight.

i told you i loved the night we spent together

i wish i could have captured the grin you wore

so proud of the terrible things you did to me

how i love that smile

the same lips that grazed my skin not long ago

the same hands that caressed my body

the same hair that I tugged on as i made a show of your acts

it was only an act

all of the good things came to an end

the heavy breathing started

my lungs were collapsing

my heart forgot to beat

it was too busy aching to love you

wishing to be more than just a body

I'm not afraid of death

I am afraid of the minutes before it

When my bed of steel nails

Grow into roses

If petals could talk

They would whisper in pity

By their words, I'll bloody up my hands

With the wounds the size of torn rags

And I'll tear away the civilization I made

Count every grain falling through an hour glass

Till goodbyes erode away

Mountains stand short

Bring forth my old rivers

Drain them of glory

Count every grain falling through an hour glass

Till molten corpses fall from the sky

Bells A-ringing in chaotic serenity

Doves turn to face the weeping nights

To wish my old constellations goodbye

By their words, I'll bloody up my hands

Throw away my world, let it leave my grasp

If the petals could talk

They would whisper in pity

By their words I'll wash up my hands

Lay in my lush foggy blankets

Till my eyes flutter shut

And peppered kisses, end at the hands of my crumbling world

Divide my soul and body with bleach

I'll drink it until my body is pure and free

From sins I committed at their word

following a prophecy and commiting a sin,

is how religion is born, with its birth

Comes timed demise

I'm not afraid of death

I am afraid of the minutes before it

When cold blooded sins turn dove like, gentle

If petals could talk

They would whisper in pity,

"What a fool she was, to follow a prophecy to create belief. What a fool she was, to burn dynasties for their words. What a fool she was, what a fool she was"

(Repent for your sins to make those after you believe in rules, repent for your sins to turn unity into society, Repent for your sins to look at your hands to see the monster you've become, repent for your sins, repent for your sins)

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

make me a goddess

shaped out of pure divinity

mold my features so that they appear to kiss the setting sun

search my soul with eyes full of lust, love and wondering

so sweetly set me on your pedestal

displaying my celestial substance for all of the mortal beings to gaze upon

how i envisioned the night sky sitting next to you was so much more beautiful when i hadn’t experienced it

whenever i felt my dream coming true there was a different feeling in the air

you were never there to watch the stars and fall in love

you were there to push me to your car

to rip off my clothes and promise me sweet nothings

i couldn’t see the sky from the backseat, as my heart sank into the driveway below us

all i wanted was to fall in love

you wanted was to fall into the rhythm of sex

making love they call it

we didn’t make love that night

my love was lost somewhere out in that bright beautiful sky that i wanted to experience with you

i wanted to feel the rise and fall of your chest not feel the rise and fall of my body on top of you

we had very different plans for that night

i just wanted to see the stars

Sometimes I write in my journal as if somebody a century from now is going to find it and suddenly become captivated by the old ways of life. After they finish reading it, perhaps they’ll start living life similarly to how I do. In the past. In another life.

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.