|—||Midnight thoughts (what made you so sad)|
Maybe I should do the Boo Radley Challenge where I stay in my house for 25 years and never leave
This is the greatest literary reference I’ve ever read.
You always see young people naked together.
Well- here’s the hidden, beautiful reality.
We are forever- naked together.
I am a drunk and a whore. I will fuck anyone who wants me to fuck them. I am your mother or your father. I’m that boy in the back seat. That girl in the locker room. I’m anyone you want. And you trust me. Maybe you love me. I love you.
This is who I am. This is who we all are. Some of us hide…
I had to go find this again because of the dress code announcement today.
My palms are galaxies.
In elementary school, we used to play this game where we thought that the length of a crease in our palm could tell us how long we’d live. And Roxanne said that my measurement was 83 years, and I had nothing to fear; somehow we were fortunetellers at age nine, and we had the stars aligned in our favor, acting saviors for each other innocently breathing whittled prayers of a soft future.
My nails are small.
Bitten down from the divorce, and resting jagged in their beds kind of like my breathing under the sheets the nights they used to fight.
I wasn’t the kid that blindly trusted anything; they said they loved each other and I never took I love you’s for granted, I never take I love you’s for granted, I guess you could say I was raised with a lot of fight in me.
I adopted a scar under my right ring finger.
My aunt gave me a purity ring on my birthday and the next day I jumped off a ten-foot chain-link fence, and forgot to take the ring with me so it hung me up before it let me down. We laugh about it now, I promise to not let a boy penetrate my youth as I explain how his lips would never be soft enough to match mine, and how we all missed all the signs:
bruised knuckles and sore joints from training in the art of self-defense, scarred wrists and skateboarding dislocations, resilient bones from holding myself together all this time.
My hands, they hold storylines.
Worn and calloused, carrying every expectation like a balancing act, sweating and slippery until each one of them dropped. They dropped, and in 2012 I was diagnosed with depression, and life placed a pill on my skin instead, and no one said that it was going to be this hard, and no one taught a tired soul that if you grip a shard loosely then it doesn’t bleed so much, no one said that it was okay to not be okay, so I said nothing—
And I write.
I write jaded promises for a future that is nothing if not soft.
I write to live at least 83 years because I’ve made it past eighteen and there’s so much I haven’t seen; because I have dreams, and hopes, and I’ve never been kissed in a rainstorm or worn an achievement on my arm like it was a medal of my character, because
the date and year has yet to come when this girl, she will come along and she will steal my breath away and give it back in an intoxicating whisper that she loves me; and my God, when it does, I swear I will do everything in my power to clench my fists and believe her.
I will write about each facet of her beauty that she can’t see in her own reflection. About how I wish I could inject her touch into my skin like ink to outline every crease as a plot line to a poem that’s yet to unfold in her name. That her name sets syllables on my tongue that have never tasted so sweet, and how my pallet could get used to it forever. I’ll use my fingers to trace her skin, hold her close and curl within, sighing to the rhymthic undertone of how my name sounds leaving her mouth before dawn. When I wake, I’ll write our love out in pen, therein preserving heaven by right hand, and implore that somehow a moment’s permanence might just withstand.
December 15th, 2013:
I will write until the time runs out,
until my grip gives out. I will live, and I
will fight, and I will love.
I will always use both of my hands.
|—||"Hands," -Valentina Thompson (via theseoverusedwords)|
dog trying to save fishes
2. just one crack. one tear in my fabric. when I found out that my best friend had unlocked your lips before I even had the chance, a few of my seams split open. but it was repairable. I could mend myself back together if I just made sure I kissed you harder, that I kissed you better, that I kissed you longer.
3. the moment you saw me fully unclothed, wrists and ankles cluttered by all my loneliest nights, I bit my lip a little too hard. There were only a few drops of blood drawn, but I felt as though at least a pint of my vital fluids was drained from my mouth. I didn’t know how to kiss you without leaving the taste of rusted metal on your skin. maybe that’s why you stopped letting me mark your neck: you were afraid that people would see how easily deteriorated you were.
4. a stomach ache. not the kind when you receive bad news, but when you consume too much too fast. you can feel it convulsing every now and then, and all you can do is say sorry for not taking your time. I’m sorry for not taking my time. you have to understand: I never had any other choice other than to indulge in every second. every time you said the word ‘forever’ it came out ‘as long as I need you around’ and you can’t blame me for being so scared— I ended up being right, anyways.
5. it turned into sleepless nights and sweaty palms, and wishing I had been more cautious before I let my guard down near you. you became a fever that I felt in every inch of my shivering body. I couldn’t think about anything except for when you were going to leave me.
6. all the space you took up in my heart and in my lungs and in my hollowed out bones broke two of my ribs. I thought I had the capacity to hold you. I didn’t know you’d demand every open margin in my chest and more.
7. those broken ribs punctured my lungs and I stopped breathing for weeks. I still have trouble when you’re around.
8. my best friend gets crippling migraines, ones that she would describe to me as knives being thrown at her skull like she’s some kind of target practice. that’s how you felt. everything was louder with you. everything was amplified. I was practically paralyzed with the throbbing thought of your smile.
9. they say a 9 on the pain scale is so immense that you can’t even tolerate it. most people resort to suicide. trust me, I’m definitely getting there.
10. it ends like this. it ends with agony traumatic to the point that my blood is spilt out across the linoleum bathroom floor, mausoleum made of my collarbones; this torture was so numbing that I swear to god, I mistook it for passion. I thought you loved me. that’s what hurt the most.
|—||a.v., on a scale of 1-10, how badly did he break you? // 30 day poetry challenge (day 23)|
This is one of my favorite childhood stories.
WHAT THE FUCK
I loved these books
TIME IS A BITCH ISN’T IT (2014)
I hate this post it makes my chest tight
MY FEAR OF WATER
A top rated, creepy story. Link to story (x)
No author given.
I’ve always had a terrible fear of being submerged completely in water. Not that I can’t swim or anything. My dad made me learn; he said I almost drowned when I was really young.
I was afraid of it because, for as long as I can remember, whenever I am under water and look up at the surface I see a woman reaching down to me with a warm smile, with glowing golden hair and dark blue eyes. Even if its just in a bathtub. It always happened, it was just normal for me, but i never got used to it.
It was unnerving, but also soothing at the same time. She always made me feel like it was okay. I still avoided it, though, because I was just a kid and it was really freaky.
I never told my dad about it as a kid, but I did ask him about my mom. He never wanted to talk about her. Sometimes he even got mad at me for trying too hard to bring it up.
It was only recently that I described this apparition to him. He nearly drove into a telephone pole; obviously he knew something. I asked him, again, about my mom. He still would say much, except that she died when I was very young, and that she loved me very much. He also admitted that her hair and eyes were those colors, just like mine.
So I did some research on my own, looking up her name for myself on my birth certificate and trying to find any references I could, any news clips about a boy nearly drowning, any thing. I mostly wanted a picture, something I could match to my guardian angel.
Today, buried in our town library, I found it.
WINCHESTER: Marie Withie, 28, drowned to death yesterday evening after climbing a razerwire fence and fleeing to a nearby resevoir. A funeral is scheduled by her family for the 25th. Marie was arrested just six months ago, after being found guilty of attempted murder. Her husband Daniel Withie had acted quickly enough to rescue their infant child when she was found trying to drown him in a bathtub.