i was born in a small town cradled by ocean and trees 

where the men have palms lined with seasalt

and the girls french braid shells into their hair.

i’ve woken from dreams perfumed with cranberry and maple

knee deep in the bogs and molasses floods.

i’ve been caught in the thunderstorms of atlantic fury 

pressing her wet tongue against the crooked teeth of rocky shoreline.

as a child my eyes changed color with the seasons:

warm soil to heated bronze to bright honey 

until november weighed them shut with snow. 

i’ve been to a dozen foreign cities, screaming in neon

and steel and concrete, in strange accents, in ancient currency;

still, home is this bed i’ve made of pine and seaweed,

this lullaby of foghorn and church bell and gull cry, 

this blanket of northern stars. 

i long to be slender, delicate. for my limbs to stretch dark and supple like the branches of the tree outside my bedroom window, it’s arms reaching and tapping fingertip staccato on the panes. the way it clings to, scars the wall as winds howl during hurricane season; that is how i wish to claw at your skin when the lights are dimmed. i want to wake the whole house with the slamming of boughs and brick, of teeth and hips. 

the slope of my legs angling down to my feet trip you up like the roots growing into the street. the grip of nature cracking the concrete, i want the curve of my collar to send you down to your knees. 

i do not know what art is.

wring the wet from your hair 

with careful fingers,

as the saddest piano starts to swoon 

about how every bite leaves a mark.

absently, you rub your neck,

and remember how his mouth

on your throat felt like an art

that left watercolor bruises on the inside of your skin.

thrown on your bedroom floor

in the pocket of your winter jacket

is a slip of paper, a scribbled poem

about bitten hearts, small bird wings, and

the assortment of sins that you practice.

you reflect on how that fogfurled morning you had

wept in front of curious gazes, and tongues that worried

at a question: is she safe to touch?

because you whimpered like an injured animal, 

nursing wounds that shed no blood.

and you wanted to cry: it’s not safe, my 

bite is venomous.

on the pillow, your curls leave a dark wet stain, 

an inkblot, that, to you, resembles

two figures devouring each other.

in dreams we stormed the bluest city

and you turned to ash beneath my fingers

i have scars on my arms where you mouth once touched,

and i have writhed and bitten under the graze of your teeth

more than a girl should admit—

i have sweated and gasped beneath the half moons of 

your heavy lids and endless gaze

while honey burned hot and golden through my veins

if a swipe of your rough tongue cut me open

how sweet would it taste?

Is my new writing blog, I’m going to try and write at least once a night. I’m a bit distraught at the moment with my quality of my writing, so hopefully I’ll be able to note some improvement over time.

Basically it is just me throwing up my brain. If you follow me, it would be lovely and I’d appreciate it quite a lot, and I will absolutely follow back!

“you sleep in a foreign language most nights now, but the constellations still collide in the same shapes for both of us. they are still slung arrows and roaring mouths. pull them apart with your fingers and teeth, and i will cup my hands and collect them for you as you drop them out of the sky. solar shine on midnight shrines on the beds we made from darkened pine. on forest floors we wrestled love to its knees. living on flesh and wine. chemicals seethe and writhe. my heart bursts and blooms, unfolding messily from my chest and dripping with wishes. we shared our dreams and they ran through us like wildfire. do the gods chant outside your window in your room buried in such deep south? do they wet your face with war paint as you sleep? whisper in your ear in wicked tongues? and you start awake, clutching at your own skin and instead feeling not your own pulse but mine. drowsing so many mountain ranges and riverbeds away. when you step outside, strange bright birds sing out in wonder. the sun burns like a coin in the back pocket of your mind. the stars i hold smolder in my hands, burn holes, and one morning you wake up with a dozen tiny freckles smoking on your palms.”

He can’t quite remember the exact moment or details of when he initially came into existence; just swirls of blackness against a film of hazy white; a sudden explosion of red and orange; and a spark of being was infused into previous lifelessness.

“It was diaphanous, dreamlike, a ghost-thing, the color of smoke, and it welled up like silk under water…”

***

The thing about exceptionally talented people is that I simultaneously want them to stop because they make me doubt my own skill and feel incredibly lacking, but also to never, ever stop, please, because without them the world would be so devoid of beauty that I wouldn’t want to live in it.

Heart broken by the same cold hands, year after year— the chronic disease, the decade old injury. The lovely fever and frenzied bleeding. The doctors will give you pills for it, the priests will tell you to pray. But the poets will tell you this love is terminal, and it will mark your grave.

This movie always restores my optimism and sense of adventure. I want to cut my hair short and wear a big red bow, and sew my own plum-colored dress (“Lavender would look prettier on me”), and steal my father’s radio and hop on a broom with my tiny, smart-aleck black cat. I want to fall asleep on trains and wave to sailors from the sky and drift past clock towers and move into a small little room in the most beautiful village and get fat on too many pancakes and smell fresh bread every morning. Watching Kiki’s so much as a child seemingly determined my dream lifestyle. The town of Koriko is just so perfect, so lovely, with it’s ocean view, cobblestone streets, old trams, small shops and quaint parks, friendly people in vintage dress (all with a wonderful French-Italian sorta film score playing…at least in my head). This is what I want. Something very simple, very pure. A place to learn how to be, and how to be okay.

(Source: everythingisgoneforever)

and get hot and shaky when I look at pictures of Justin Pierre sometimes, and my heart does this bass drum thud, and it’s the most bizarrely uncomfortable and wonderful feeling. I don’t know what it is about him that affects the chemicals in my head that way no matter how much I try to feel otherwise. Seeing him just sorta circumvents my rational thought and the part of me that is like, “don’t be a stupid little girl fawning over some boy who might as well be fictional, he’s so distant from your life”, and just kickstarts some physical reaction in me. It sounds ridiculous, but it feels like the most genuine representation of love I’ve ever felt, the strange, perfect mixture of chemicals to produce to most heated, true feelings of affection in me.

I try to talk myself outta this in my head all the time because it must seem insane and fanatical but he’s just this human boy who lives on the same planet I do in the same time I do that makes me feel, fully, wholly, and deeply, right in the roots of me, and I am incredibly grateful for that. That I, a dumb, foolish, flighty little girl gets to feel the way I do sometimes, even if it will never be actualized.

begging you to believe i love you. and it’s so strange the way it goes and the way it all ends up. i’ve been ghosting along for days now. grabbing hold of anyone who brushes close just to prove to myself that some part of me is solid and real. but as soon as i let go i don’t believe it anymore. i am stealing truth and blood from too many lips lately. drinking too much, inhaling too much. if death is just one unending blackout. then send me home now. let me sweat this one out. my wrists are sore from feeling sorry for myself. it burrows underneath and poisons you. i know none of this would be without that boy from years ago— the wolf teeth, the brown eyes with flecks of green, that dumb fucking haircut. yeah he ruined the lot of us. but he hovers in the back of my head. i can’t erase his voice or touch. the cricket singing from my shoulder. a way you think about the world— so you eat and sleep it. i am the best liar ever. i am fooling myself.

my father’s legacy won’t escape me. i’ll wear that crown of thorns. the bottle slips from shaking hands and shatters on the floor. so many nights i’ve slept in the broken glass of it all. but the blood is so pretty and sweet. it runs like wine.

truth is all i want is your hand on my mouth and your weight much too heavy, stripping me of everything down to a bare and shivering soul. i want you to put me out with your fingers like a cigarette you’ve burned up.

i’ll claw my way under the grass and dirt and find a cool, quiet place to sleep.

ahomeboyslife:

it all has to begin somewhere then get crazy and end. 200-300 pages to edit. not stopping til its in your hands.

 Stop trying so hard. Has nothing important in you changed at all in all these years?