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Them BoysBoys only like you scraping your knees.
They tell you your hair smells nice and that your dress is very pretty, but they don’t care, and you don’t mind, because you’ve been secretly thinking you’re ugly.
Boys don’t cry.
They produce a small kidney stone every time they hold in tears, so they don’t lose manliness.
But you can literally try crying at a packed bus station, and no one will stop to look at you.
I wish I were on my knees for you. I wish you said something nice, even lied about something nice.
I don’t know, I don’t care.
NoticeFragile existence. One day you're annoying your parents, watering your plants, consuming tea, and producing organic waste, the next, you realize, you're just your carbon footprint, a post-it on the fridge, white noise of an old television.
This memory from 7 years ago. Random unflattering photograph. Eye shadow in the back of the washing machine.
People around you should change this notion you don't matter.
People should matter.
I should matter.
They should notice if you haven't been yourself in months, or if your eyes look puffy all the time.
They should care.
Just notice me.
Someone, notice me.
AvoidWhat a strange idea.
If the chandelier were to fall on me, from that specific altitude, it would crush my ribcage, I'd die in a matter of thirty-four minutes.
It would be such a terrible accident.
A tragedy, really.
Some uncrafty builders and their awful ceiling installations.
"She was a promising human being."
Just to avoid the embarrassment of suicide.
They say it's a word that's used to describe when people wish to express a feeling of nostalgia for a place they've never visited.
For years I dreamt of busy cityscapes of Beijing, London, or a simple a mountain cabin up in the north, very far from where I am.
I lost that feeling. You shouldn't get nostalgic for blocks of concrete, or the suitable weather, I suppose. It bears no meaning. Not really.
When I close my eyes, I register your fingers on my forearms, I can imagine the perfect hug. I brush my cheek off the rough texture of your sweater, and with every deep breath I seem to inhale old books, wet ground, and a vaguely present scent of mulberry.
All of that from just seeing you once, twice, maybe, if you count thinking that might have been you, in a yellow Volkswagen automobile passing my side, on a particularly sad day, and me looking away, out of fear it actually is you.
I wonder is there a pretty foreign word for being homesick for people you've never actually
A dayI cried in the locker room - no one noticed.
I cried on the bus on my way home. This old couple was staring at me - their faces phasing between pity and disgust. No one asked me if I was okay.
Why did I cry?
I don't know.
There's one or maybe two major fuck ups in my life. Like telling dad I'd rather kill myself than be seen with him, and actually meaning it, or that time I pretended I couldn't hear the blind guy asking for help across the street. These things are horrifyingly true, but they happened ages ago, yet I perpetually feel so bad, about that, about me, about everything.
I guess, today was about a piece of trash teacher accused me of copying my schoolwork, and running into a guy who called me dumb a year and a half ago.
Anything qualifies today.
It's just one of those days I feel like dying.
InaptHere I am at two AM on Google maps virtually strolling down a snowy scenery of somewhere, thinking every possible photograph of the world has been already taken, and nothing I can do can ever amaze anyone.
I wish there was a punchline.
A lover, so doughy eyed and gentle, so living with him should be considered artistry - as a reward from the Universe that cares for those not gifted enough to offer something better. Here have some love, cause your anguish won't produce a masterpiece.
Yet, I get to turn in my bed for nothing more than vacant introspection that can't bring epiphany to someone distant, a strong sense of disability of relating to anybody.
Here have some courage, live the life you dream of painting. Live so big, so extravagant your existence becomes an inspiration to those capable of amazing.
I wish this has an optimistic ending, but no, it's two AM, and I'm sitting here, in the dark of my room, wasting my time thinking of various clichés to des
If I had a therapist, I'd show him thisDepression centers me.
It feels good to feel low, for a while, before the seed of it overgrows me.
Like a moldy cover that sticks to my skin, and doesn't let me get up.
It compliments my anxieties, at first. The pressure of doing something perfectly is met by a will to be invisible, and not having a single ambitious thought, so I end up somewhere in the middle, very average, and goddamn safe.
The hurtful brightness of my woeful apprehensiveness is washed out by the most beautiful, silent greys.
Thank you for being mean.
liarthere's nothing more sad than seeing someone loves that thing you stopped being ages ago. I will never go back to being that disgusting, little, unsure thing, but I can't stop lying to you.
car crashI wish I could crash in your tiny bed, after a long day at Uni. You'd creep up behind me, and hold me with your strong, spider arms, and plant kisses on my neck, and ideas of a bigger apartment in my mind.
"Some day, we'll have thirteen cats."
Scent of basic soap and tomato sauce.
Broken HeartbeatYou seem to break my heart beat into shorter syllables,
like every time I touch you,
It just gets
/\ /\ /\ /\ /\ /\ / \ /\ /\ /i r\
________/ \ / \ __/ \ / \ / \ ___/ \ /\ / \ m \ s \ / \ / \_______l i k e__I 'm__g a s p i n g__f o r__a i r_________
Saturated SeductionSaturated Seduction 7/23/14
You appeared to me in a dream.
You exist only in my enigmatic imagination.
The moon was heavy that night,
drunk with the power of the sun.
Pulling and pushing the tides
like my vacillating moods.
I swim through this vast ocean
of unrest searching for
a place to call home.
I created your face
to give me comfort.
I carved out your being
to fit perfectly with mine.
Your hair danced like fire even
though the sea consumed you.
Sometimes my dreams are lucid -
most times I forget.
But you linger like an after image -
as a flash of a camera in
my watery eyes.
You stay with me on nights
of uncertainty - when all my
doubts bombard and petrify me.
I am rooted in place, too
frightened to move...on.
If you were real it would feel like a dream.
I would never wake.
Eternal slumber has a nice ring to it.
She Is PoetryShe speaks to me in sonnets
Sighing her similes
Angrily articulating her alliterations
and ranting her rhymes.
She mumbles her metaphors
Heaving heavily her haikus
Bickering her ballads
at my feeble free verse.
When We Said Our Goodbyeswhen we said
i did not blame
breaking my heart
making petty claims
throwing my gran's china
ripping up pictures
demanding custody of our cat
but i do blame you
every single one
we were a
You really wanted a girl who wasn't me.I fell in
love with you or
not quite you,
because you said
you'd never love
sacrosanct perversionhe is
my paragon of feverish intemperance
my blue-flamed boy nova
the burning of my besotted wits-end and start
the reticence under the gape of endless stars
whose abdomen fell
prey to my scathing eyes and starving claws
whose mien asphyxiated
by my irrepressible thirst
past his past lovers and navel gait
how i pine
for the warmth of his gargantuan laughs
for the coolness of his gaze transfixed
on my lips
blue-fire fervor and inferno
dearest penned don
grant me my sip of the holy grail
i would become a polyglot existence
singing of her myrtle and doves
and my mirabile dictu love
on every known continent
I thought that my feelings
Were guided only
By the desire emanating
Between my legs
Now I realize
That it goes
Far beyond that
My heart pounds ferociously
At the mere thought of you
I want my body
To melt into you
Feel the waves of love
Crash against the shore
Of my once battered body
Sweep me up
Into your tide
I want to drown
In a sea
Of your love
Asphyxiated by desire
You are the only one
Who can resuscitate me
Your lips against mine
Bring me back to life
Twilight's Dream Falling,
Twas a dream
You in my sight,
Just your eyes,
Oh, the way
They strip me
Of my soul,
So that it be
My darling -
In the days
You caressed me
Falling for you,
Over you -
But twas just
StrippedI long for a life of not a single responsibility, but your precious frail heart.
As we'll stumble upon each other, like onto an atlas of a forgotten district - you'll appreciate the lines on my face for they are an estuary of an ancient river, and I'll cherish the working blisters on your strong hands for they stood out proud of their diligence.
I haven't any other propositions. Affections shouldn't be afflictions, they should be easy and painless, smooth and transparent.
Complexity's never on the table.
Perfection of Monotony is.
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