❝
Every morning I jump out of bed and step on a landmine.The landmine is me. After the explosion, I spend the rest of the day putting the pieces together.
- Ray Bradbury (via enchanting)
(Source: larmoyante)
2,407 notes / permalink
goodbye, halcyon days
fractured bones and beaten skulls,
bruises, scars, and silver rings -
you are my favorite poem to hear,
you are my favorite song to sing
poetry
prose
this is where I write and dream.
bruises, scars, and silver rings -
you are my favorite poem to hear,
you are my favorite song to sing
poetry
prose
this is where I write and dream.
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inspiration is not always good
you wanted to buy me a house on the coast of some foreign country
next to the sea, close enough for me to smell it in the air,
hear it in the waves,
crashing against the rocks like music.
but you didn’t know I wanted to be alone
like a hermit, sealed away in my misery.
and I locked you out from the inside.
that was the only survival tip I ever learned.
well, maybe I’m clairvoyant because I had a dream,
and the dog was dead and it was outside,
the carcass rotting in the weeds, the flies and worms and
every detestable insect building a home beneath the fur.
and you told me, “sometimes dreams do come true.”
well, sometimes they don’t.
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what love feels like
I am sitting here, freezing my ass off, eyes dead from lack of sleep, and the fucking window is open. I don’t want to get out of my bed because my bones are aching and I just know, I am positive, that they will unhinge if I take a step out of this sanctuary.
It is possibly two in the morning, or maybe it’s still nine at night because these drugs are making my room blurry and I can’t tell whether it is dark or not. Or maybe it is your possible presence next to me which is making me dizzy and giddy and terribly depressed and how many times did I vomit and what, exactly, happened?
I want to wake you but my hands seem to be numb and I can’t feel them anymore and I am too scared to hurt you because that’s what my hands do, they make everyone cry because I am bad and I do not think about anyone else. I touch your cheek but then I bring my shaking fingers back because I don’t want to take you away from the beautiful dreams you could be having, or maybe you are having nightmares and maybe you are just helpless and you want to wake up and I want to reach out and hold you but It just doesn’t work that way, you will say, I can just imagine the words spilling out of your mouth and breaking my heart again.
so I guess I’ll leave the window open because I can see the moon from here, a glowing and unwavering hope, and maybe it is the only beautiful thing left in the world.
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family is beautiful july is beautiful life is beautiful i feel whole
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sometimes
sometimes, I am so terrified of where I am.
I don’t want to be stuck here forever.
I pretend that I am not alone,
but this feeling in my heart tells me otherwise.
no one to turn to.
too much to hide from.
sometimes, I like it this way.
sometimes, I think I am satisfied.
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memories
I dream of summer days,
ice cream dripping onto the sidewalk,
feet pasted to the cement,
scalding and blistering,
barefoot with you.
we cool off by running through the long grass,
the earth damp from sprinklers.
by the time we stop,
panting and tired,
our feet are a mud-caked brown.
these memories are the ones I keep
locked away: the sound of your laughter,
the look in your eyes, your hand in mine,
together, as though we were not separated
by a fork in the road.
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mayflies
while the pigmented sky,
staring back from the horizon,
hesitates, the pause lengthening as Day awakens,
eyes shining with naïve optimism,
there are ten million ifs and buts
and things to do.
one of them is learning how to live.
from who?
a father hiding behind his papers,
like a coward behind an excuse?
“oh, don’t blame him,” they say,
“we are weak, true,
but after all,
we are just humans.
we are meant
to make mistakes.”
“mistakes like you.”
a sob, the lowest note of my heart,
is echoing the thoughts of the world.
she takes my hand and tells me that I belong.
her voice is warped and broken and singing with maddening desperation.
she says,
if only we were mayflies,
born into the world for a day,
before fading into the unknown,
our minds still resting
in our own makeshift sanctuary.
