reflecting upon reflections.flesruoy evol t'nac uoy fi em evol t'nac uoy dnareflecting upon reflections in Free Verse More Like This
rorrim a ni gnikool er'uoy dna
em ta kool
.uoy ees t'nod uoy dna rorrim eht ni kool
.hturt ees t'nod uoy dna rorrim eht ni kool
.seituaeb thguat-fles ro sretupmoc ton era ew
.gnihton si ereht erehw esnes fo
,gnicaf-tnorf otni su secrof taht
ytilanoitar dellac gniht a s'ereht
nicotine withdrawalhis fingers are drumming on the metal ring round the countertop. his knee is sharp and jostling, beating out a ruthless rhythm in time with his tongue flicking against his teeth.nicotine withdrawal in General Fiction More Like This
his knuckles are raw, fingers chewed senseless and bloodied. the waitress casts uneasy looks his way every few seconds. she is concerned for him; he is jittery and looks like a boy she met at a party once, where she first tried ecstasy and the boy he resembled fell into a heroin coma.
his eyes are rolling around, looking at everything but focusing on nothing. the waitress wraps her fingers around her elbow, feeling awkward and unbearably nervous. this boy wore the same brown jacket, the same messy red hair as- what was his name? she frowns at her lapse in memory, cursing the ecstasy she took again before her shift tonight.
he is on his tenth coffee. he does not even look straight ahead, he is more interested in the front of his dark shirt and his bloody fingers banging on the counter.
the waitress is pulling o
there are no anteaterstell me about your headache,there are no anteaters in Scraps More Like This
tell me about a trip to germany,
tell me about your fascination with staples and puddles.
tell me your name,
and favourite song,
tell me you mean it when you say-
a heart-shaped face is set between snowbanks.
it is not yours, it is not mine, it is not attached
to anybody or any body.
i do not like the winter,
i do not like the cold,
i do not like when i forget to brush my hair.
you frown at wastepaper and
the way i brush my teeth in hour-long intervals.
you tell me to stop it or i will brush away
the tooth itself, but i asked the dentist and all
it is, is excessive.
i do not like the bins you set out at the curb
at night, and drag in at morning,
and how they often serve as rain barrels
for the birds and coyotes and anteaters,
i dream there are anteaters.
you tell me that dreams are seconds long,
and i remembered your insomnia.
i woke up with a funny taste in my mouth,
metal and blood and nasal drainage,
dreamsleeps and truth-
woke up underwater
i meant to tell youplease (tell me another story, tell me every dream you've ever had so that in case you) forget (i could remember it for you. i'm stumbling over my words again, asking, do you love) me, (do you dream of me? i love and dream of you every night, i am a mess of limbs and i remember to lie to you and tell you that i) do not (remember my subconscience's wishes on stars that do not exist, i will not tell you that i dreamt that we could) talk (underwater, and you would never come) to me (again because you would not leave me, n)ever again.i meant to tell you in Scraps More Like This
too fucking beautifulnote: this is backwards, and for a reason.too fucking beautiful in Short Stories More Like This
I didnt bury her; I couldnt.
She was too beautiful; just too fucking beautiful.
Even when she lay there with her flesh in puzzles and the skin on her face rotting to expose her cheekbones and the empty spaces underneath them, she was like a doll; a beautiful, disgusting doll. I still call her love, but she doesnt answer.
She screams, and I run the silver blade over her stomach again. I dont press hard enough to cut, but I press hard enough to make her silent. I turn back to her feet, and push the end of the knife under another nail. Its gorgeous; the way the blood trickles when I slowly push the knife in, and the pours when I take it out; it reminds me of rivers and of the tears that trickle down her face.
She closes her eyes, when I tell her Ill kill her. I think maybe shes imagining that shes picking white roses from her garden again. The way she je
mornings on suburban trainsdearest, you have thunder in your eyesmornings on suburban trains in Teen More Like This
and lacing your fingertips
the mornings that you sit across from me on suburban trains; they are the brightest mornings of all. i could spend the whole trip admiring each curl in your hair and the shape of each fingernail if only i had the time. sometimes our legs brush when we sit across from each other, and my heart skips, but i don't think you even notice. your gaze lingers on the scenery outside the window; as if you wished you were outside too. as if the train was a cage.
if only you would let me, i could brighten your mornings too.
the afternoons that we exit the train at the same stop, they are the warmest afternoons of all. we split ways at the end of the station; i go left and you go right, but listening to your heels tap against the concrete even for thirty seconds makes me want to hold you in my arms and never, ever let you go.
the morning you smiled at me, i think my heart stopped momentarily. you had off-white teeth and dimples
i will be a birdit is the day before christmas and she's waking up her car. the windows are frosted over and the car seat is freezing beneath her. she sits up and opens the door. outside it is windy and she feels goodebumps run up her spine. her fingernails are digging into the cold skin on her bare legs and she's on the verge of tears. she doesn't cry though. she never, ever cries.i will be a bird in Short Stories More Like This
it is three days after chrismas and she's laying in her back yard on patches of dead grass, shaking. she's shrouded in coats and blankets but its raining and once the water seeps through the cotton it clings to her skin. she's drinking champage mixed with rain water from a paper cup and she's imagining that this is how she'd like to die. cold and lonely, waiting for the morning sun.
its the last night before the new year and she's not watching television. she's sitting in front of it though, and letting the noise wash over her. it's almost like white noise. she's somewhere else though, she's imagining that her family a
he taught her -happiness does not consist in getting something -he taught her - in Free Verse More Like This
it consists in becoming something.
boy who belongs to the sunhe asked me once, 'are you afraid to die?' and i didn't know how to answer. i'd like to say that i am; that it scares me more than anything else, but i can't help but think that the world becomes a better place when you die. i told him i wasn't and he stared out the window at the dark street. resting his head against the slightly-frosted window pane, he breathed 'neither am i'boy who belongs to the sun in Short Stories More Like This
we're all just dying, though, don't you think? we're not living, we're dying. every day is another day we won't ever get back and another day that we won't ever remember. at least we're dying together, though. at least we can say that we've spent time watching our lives pass us by and not doing anything about it. i think that's the best thing we can do, really.
i realised the other day that there's nothing to be afraid of. that even if we are dying, that even if we are lost, thats the point. that maybe we're supposed to get lost and find our way out. that maybe if we spend long enough dying when the time real
learn to smiletheres this man whose eyes bleed this beautiful, sad blue. he hides it though, behind dark crops of hair and thick eyelashes. sometimes i find myself wanting to count the folds and wrinkles that hide his cheekbones and teach him how to smile. theres times i pass him and hell be pressing a cup of coffee gently to his lips and it makes me happy. i dont know why but i think it shows me hes alive. hes hearts beating and hes feeling something, anything.learn to smile in Short Stories More Like This
he writes postcards to himself from his capital city to make sure he never forgets where he is. he posts them to himself and wonders why he does it. he cant really remember, but he buys new postcards every wednesday on his way home from work. he tells himself who he is and who he wants to be tomorrow. hes never who he wants to be, though. hes always who he wishes he wasnt.
on friday nights i walk my dog past the pier. sometimes ill walk down to the end, watchin
everything and nothing.maybe he would have been a beautiful boy.everything and nothing. in Short Stories More Like This
do you think he'd have had your brown eyes?
i know he'd have your smile.
you're playing this out of tune guitar, and i'm sitting across the room. the music is bittersweet. you can't really play the guitar but you've got pretty fingers and you're shining in the pre-dawn light that filters though the gaps in my curtains. i'm shaking and you ask if i'm alright, and i tell you i'm just cold. you place the guitar on the ground next to you and crawl towards me, across the field of clothes and tissues that litter my bedroom floor. we lie down together and i close my eyes but everything is so quiet. the room seems empty without your music.
maybe he'd have your tanned skin
with your thick hair and skinny legs.
he'd have your laugh; the one i love.
its raining and the water in your mother's pool stings our bare feet but i take off my clothes anyway. i guide you; my pinky finger wrapped around your index finger and pull you gently down the steps int
goodnight, baby boy`goodnight, baby boy in Short Stories More Like This
when you lay in bed tonight and decide, with tears in your eyes that you're better off without me, just know that i was laying, trying to remember that breathing does help the numb ache that keeps me awake through the night.
just know that i feel hollow and sick without knowing i can run to you.
and when i close my eyes, all i will be able to see is you. and when you curl into a ball and hug your knees, to try and make yourself feel safe, just know that i was alone, trying to steady my breathing, longing to be able to lay beside you.
and it'll all be okay, in the end;
that's what i used to tell myself.
it will all be okay
in the end.
11.41sometimes she wishes she could say sorry, too.11.41 in Philosophy & Perspectives More Like This
but she hates lying and she'd rather spend nights crying into her pillow
but don't worry, it's so much easier for you that way.
sometimes she wishes people could understand.
but losing yourself in early hours of the morning is impossible, isn't it?
its okay, you'll never know what it feels like to fucking forget who you are.
sometimes she wishes she could mean something she says.
but she's never fine and it won't be okay. in the end it'll all just be the same.
its alright though, you're not the one who doesn't feel anything at all.
sometimes she wishes she could just mean something.
forgetting how to feel.there's something in the way your lip moves when you're about to cry that makes my heart ache.forgetting how to feel. in Other More Like This
you're leaning back against the train wall; your eyes red under the bright white light as i try not to look. but i know you're watching me, and i know you're hurting more than i can imagine.
and i want to understand, but i don't, and i never will.
they tell me not to do anything stupid, and i almost laugh.
funny, how after this many years i don't need to kill myself.
i guess its painfully scary though, to know that
i am already insane.
there is no pain anymore;
just the emptiness.
but in the end it will be okay, because we're falling together;
you're dragging me down by arms and i'm not fighting back.
and i think we both understand that there's going to be nobody to catch us when we hit the bottom.
but in the end it will be okay.
it's like forgetting how to feel.
and not even caring.