searching for warmth when you are the only life to be found is maddening
ravenous hands clawing at any ounce of heat
only to find your body slashed and your fingers bloody
colder do the nights get as your being disintegrates
slipping into nothingness
the once lively body etched with scars
remains indefinitely reaching for the love of another
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
was i created to lie here forever?
molded into a cancerous being
rotting from the inside out
i have been running from existence for so long
only to find out that i will never be able to escape my predetermined demise
so i will remain here
letting a once lovely creation rot
-sundayafternoonsedentary
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
For someone who couldn't sleep in the confines of four walls, her presence seemed much like home,a warmth he had never known
Having spent his favourite times amidst trees, forests and raving waves, she felt much like a storm that hitting broke the sleep of his lonely shore
Where birds perched on trees came down the Earth to meet him, she sprung her wings away from him,soaring high in the sky
Water bend their ways to come pass him by and yet she carried the vigour of an ocean untamed and wild,windy and rough challenging him with her eyes
He could bare himself to biting coldness of any sort, yet the warmth that flew from the tip of her hands caught him off guard like never before
She is in the raving spirit of the sea, the scorching life of the sun, the serenity that gives life to the moon, in his very existence
She is the dream as well as the reality and every liminal space there is to be, she is the day and night and every shade of the sky in-between.
~nt
_ She was a different kind of a wind_
Image from Pinterest
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
“Reading is one form of escape. Running for your life is another.”
— Lemony Snicket
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.
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.
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
i really wish i hadn’t charmed my therapist
maybe i wouldn’t be sitting in the position if i had
i wanted her approval just as much as anyone else’s
so i lied and cried at the right parts
reeling her in until-
snatch.
“this is not your fault”
but you see sarah,
it is.
all of it is.
but if i reveal my tactic of manipulation
my whole facade will come crumbling down
and you’ll begin to realize that i am not the victim of my own story
i’ve been pulling the right strings and moving the right pawns
but again, here i am
wishing i didn’t have to lie to you
because right now. i need you.
-sundayafternoonsedentary