“I don’t think I miss you, not really. But from time to time, I can’t help but wonder how you are. If your corner of the world is treating you right; if your happy days outnumber the bad. I do not miss you anymore… But I hope you know I remember.”— died-of-thirst
(via wnq-writers)
(Source: wnq-writers.com, via deadwatered)
Ikko
You wrote about dirty white sneakers and blood crusted nostrils.
You did everything you could to break the cycle. But it’s like waking up one day and all your credit cards have someone else’s name on them. You knew it was happening gradually. It was like a slow landslide that you couldn’t stop with your feeble hands or poetry. You wanted so desperately to remember your own name that you shouted it into an empty mirror until it sounded like talking underwater. He told you pretty lies just hoping you wouldn’t come to terms with the fact that he loved making angels out of rolled up dollar bills more than he loved you. You thought that if you were his punching bag, then he’d have a reason to keep you around.
So you didn’t bat an eyelash when his hands locked around your throat. Because even though you couldn’t breathe
at least he found you desirable.
You always told me to keep my eyes cast forward. Now I’m telling you to find something wholesome to fill the white spaces- Find anything you can to fill the loitering abyss growing within you. Unfortunately no matter how much you insist that the footprints on your birth certificate hold the same tsunami swirls as the ones attached to your ankles do now the static in your head gets louder by the second.
It’s hard to convince yourself that your heart hasn’t sunk like a titanic full of passengers that didn’t know they were drowning.
And as much as you want to forget the days where the sun failed to shine and your fingertips fell off from the hypothermia, the memories stay stuck to your brain like a push pin that never found its way to a bulletin board.
You are the tweet with 141 characters saved into your drafts because you didn’t know how to tell the people closest to you what it was like to be a calendar with no Fridays.
As the days get shorter and the nights get longer you try to convince yourself it’s just daylight savings. The numbness in your fingertips keeps you from gripping a pen.
But you tell everyone it’s just writers block.
You shouldn’t kiss guardrails, Because they have chapped lips. And the jagged edges will slice your tongue whenever you touch them. You say winter is coming fast but it’ll pass by slow. You puncture photographs in the throat with push pins just for a reminder that those moments were real.
The pulses in your thumbs are like faint baby steps by now, and the coldness brings a chill to your bones.
A song that makes you feel nostalgic is playing in the grocery store
you pick through strawberries, absorbing sadness like a dry sponge in a soap bowl.
You wish to mourn, but not in front of strangers so you carry this knot in your throat, like grocery bags, all the way home.
You’ve been so quiet for days and after a drink you feel like spilling,
You tell your brother that the moon smells like gunpowder and about that thing you did in middle school that still makes you cringe.
But you don’t tell him about how the curves in your body just aren’t slim enough to you. Or how you wish for one second that you didn’t have to sit in the back of a uhual holding his shit together, like always.
There’s so many words clogging your windpipe so you sprawl them out into spoken word and call it art. But really you’re just trying to survive.
You are starting to feel as if you regaining the feeling in your fingertips again.
And I am proud of you for that.
(via deadwatered)
“My wish for you is that you continue. Continue to be who and how you are, to astonish a mean world with your acts of kindness. Continue to allow humor to lighten the burden of your tender heart.”— Maya Angelou
(via purplebuddhaquotes)
(via purplebuddhaproject)
