December 2011
62 posts
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This rain that’s falling on the roof leaves footprints where I cannot follow; there are smudges under my eyes where the night has kissed me. I close my door to shut myself up from the noises outside because I broke my glasses by trying to find them. The floor here is safe. The chipped walls are safe. They are not safe out there, but they cannot come in here either.
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Would you still be there if they said they weren’t going to be there for you?
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and as i slept i thought, “i don’t know any other way to live and i cannot remember anything but this,” and i woke up on a plane going home, oh this is home? home was a cloud and my head was above it. home was a place where i coughed and coughed until i choked blood and tears. i was a child, i am child, i will never feel the way people do when they look out the windows in...
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“Sometimes when I look at you, I feel I’m gazing at a distant star. It’s...”
– Haruki Murakami (via emelno)
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I like sad songs that make me feel like I’m sitting on a rock near the edge of a cliff. I’m choosing the better looking boy, because he has a better personality. Looking at maps makes me nostalgic for wheels and dirt and calendars from five years ago. It’s funny how we said we were always going to get out of here, get out of this fake town. You told me everyone was fake and...
Anonymous asked: I love that you write. I love that you blog other's writing and I love that you blog your own. I love the way you can put your feelings so carefully into words and I love that you share them. I love that you don't store them in a journal that no one else sees. I love reading your thoughts.
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Because I can see the bones in your wrists when you grab my hands and we freeze because that is the first time you’ve ever ever touched someone intentionally since the day your mother left and the particles of dust settle down on us like we are in a tomb — a desert tomb with far off rocks as a hole and we are entrapped. It’s magical, if this is death. We isolate ourselves and we...
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Because you’re a circle and I’m a square and I’ve been spending too much time to fit myself into you to notice that my ends are chipped and there are spaces and holes where it’s supposed to be full.
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“It’s funny, you work so hard, you do everything you can to get away from a...”
– Gattaca (via lostinthesounds)
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It gets to the point where I want to take in every sad person and sprinkle their feet with stardust so when they run, they will become comets. I pack my bags but I cannot go go go, I cannot leave leave leave because I have said goodbye and now I am on a set course. I’m afraid, you see, because once I am gone I will be forgotten until I come back, but what if I never return?
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There is an empty shelf for my winter clothes, but I want to fold myself up there instead. It seems bare, the floor, if I do not cover it with would-be letters and cups of stained tea. The dark rungs on the floor and my eyes could be twins and I miss seeing the sunrise emerge from its sleep.
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Dear Peter,
They say there is a high-pitched sound only the young can hear. Does it ring in your ears? I’m afraid for the day I will listen for it and it will never come again. I am afraid of forgetting the sound.
Love, Lola
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When the moon has stolen all the minty breaths you take and you are left with choking snores and you wake up — and you wake up and you wonder if the moon has stolen your dreams too; you cannot seem to get them back. You cry out because it was such a lovely, lovely dream about a swingset and when you try to retrieve it from the moon it becomes clever and hands you back a nightmare in...
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You are under your bed sheet cover and you feel sticky hot because your mother insists on draping a heating blanket and a thick feathered comforter over your bed. The streets are empty with that white winter glow but there isn’t even snow save for the ice patch that didn’t want to melt right where the mailbox is. You breathe in cool intervals outside the blankets. The flashlight is...
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there is a train
can’t you hear it?
the railroad curves to
where you stand
and you whistle
along with the toot-toot
look at the sky
isn’t it absolutely lovely?
your favourite shade of grey
oh but wait
don’t forget
about the train
you stare at the black engine
knowing what happens
when you jump off
the train tracks
but not
if you don’t.
you’re...
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one night i saw a huge spider in the corner and so naturally i got my fly swatter to kill it and when i smacked it suddenly hundreds of these tiny baby spiders came out and i screamed.
i helped a spider give birth.
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“I promise to make you so alive that the fall of dust on furniture will deafen…”
– Nina Cassian (via vulgivagus)
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i i like the darkness because i don’t have to look at anybody and no one has to look at me. my hair is shame and I cut it short — but when the wind blows I still feel it brushing against my back. even when the light is pinched and my hands do not exist and i haven’t a clue to prove whether my voice projects sounds i can still feel it.
ii my mother pounds guilt into my heart and forms an...
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when i am driving and you suddenly open the door and fall out — when i have to ask you why you did that and you lie, when i have you why you lie and you lie once again. when people are too nice and they stay by me when and i look at them and all their limbs ache to be somewhere else. it’s sad, isn’t it? am i supposed to feel like a crumpled up paper? but i feel like a song played...
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I’ll wear guitar picks around guitar strings around my neck and sometimes I’ll hear the strum of the tied knot breaking under the strain of my bruised knees and sometimes I feel as if my head has a chunk of the skull missing but the skin still grows over it so my head is always in a cloud protecting it. I make buttons out of pockets and pockets out of buttons, and buttons in pockets...
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I think collarbones are delicate. He thinks necks are vulnerable. He smells like pennies and blood and I can’t help but be drawn to him, cannot help being a human lost in the world of money. Meaningless? No, it means everything to me. He props his knee for a step for my feet, he gives me both his green stuff and his white stuff. Tells me I should be blessed that I am given things for nothing...
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my knees hold bruises in them like a bowl holds syrup, i keep trying to find you but where do i look first? mysteries usually have clues, you are a locked door novel. a nail i sit on when i don’t look where i park my rear. i can wipe my tears off with a soft towel but it still wouldn’t beat the dirty tissue you shared with me that one night we both pretended the rain was enveloping our...
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I ask C. for a distraction
he gives me a ten page text on how electromagnetic waves works.
I really like it when boys moan.
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“‘The way to do it,’ he said, ‘is to take a shoebox and make a slit at the top;...”
– C.L.R. James (via themottstmenagerie)
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Hi mi llamo Lola me gusta dandelions y tiene pelo purple.
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You think in the form of light, you see. Did you know to hear the radio in your faded blue car with the cracked glass windows, radio waves are transferred from light to sound? You think in the form of light, but you make no noise whatsoever — from the outside there is no physical evidence that you are thinking. Light comes from within you and it radiates out — that is called speaking...
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puppies claw at her eyes —
she imagines them as saws instead of paws
little children, she says
you don’t hurt others
she scolds sternly
when they grow bigger than she
they start pushing her down
instead of clawing —
she imagines them as boulders
wonders if they speak her language
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you melt my puddles into rain.
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her heart is failing her — failing her expectations of its consistency. it beats and she lives and the world goes on. et cetera. widow of half a decade. she still has not found herself, the most vital piece of her was lost five years ago. her children tell her to undergo surgery and have doctors stick a pacemaker in her chest, but she wants to tell them to let her body wear out. in a...
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I’d take an eraser to your personality if I could. Sketch marks of your brain? They’d fade. No one would see them clearly. I’d rub it off with my spit. I’d go over you in pen so you could be at least halfway decent. But still, you wouldn’t be able know the end of your dirty heel to your ass hole.
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it’s not easy being nothing.
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“one night they fell asleep, side by side. he slept curled upon her back; a dark...”
– A.S. Byatt, Possession (via beryl-azure)
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He said he wanted to rise in the air with the smoke. I told him if we burned all of his writings maybe we would have a big enough fire for him to evaporate with.